


The Right Tool

by whichclothes



Series: Toolverse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 118,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after BtVS S3. Spike gets recaptured by the Initiative. He's treated brutally as part of a dark experiment. Meanwhile, Xander's in a dark place in his own life. What happens when the government brings Xander in to consult on this new experiment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**| [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 1: Cell**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 1: Cell  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
---  
The walls and floor of the cell are made of rough stone or concrete. When he is still, the bumps and edges push into his bare flesh, bruising his buttocks or groin and the points where his skin is stretched tightly over his bones. When he moves, the raw abrasions over those bruises are scraped open again. Mostly he is still.

There’s little room to move in the cell anyway. If he presses his head into one corner and his feet into the opposite corner, he can almost straighten his knees all the way. If he struggles upright, he can sit slightly crouched, the back of his bent head against the metal ceiling of the cell.

He supposes that if the cell has an opening, it is in that ceiling. But there is no light at all, so he can’t actually see the ceiling. He can’t feel it either: his arms are bound tightly behind his back, with some sort of cord holding his elbows together, and a pair of manacles attaching his wrists.

He can’t remember the cell opening. He can’t remember anything except the darkness, the cold that seeps into his aching body, the tearing emptiness in his belly, the crushing solitude.

He thinks that maybe if he could hear his own voice he might remember who he is, might understand why he is here. But a large metal ball is in his mouth, fastened in place by straps that dig into his scalp and cheeks. His jaw is permanently stretched wide, and it’s just one more point of pain to him. The only sound he can manage is a muffled, humming sort of moan, which bounces and echoes softly off the walls of the cell. He makes the sound often when he is awake, and, he suspects, in his sleep as well. It soothes him, a little.

 

When he hears the new sounds—a series of bangs and thumps from overhead—he has only a moment to wonder what they are. Then the metal ceiling lifts open with a terrible screech, and a beam of light falls onto his upturned face. He tries to scream and burrow his face into a corner, but rough hands seize his shoulders and pull him upwards. The tender skin along his back is scraped against the edge of the opening, and then he is thrown face down onto a smooth, cold floor. A heavy boot presses on his neck, and knees and hands pin his legs in place.

Even with his face to the ground and his eyelids screwed desperately shut, the light burns his eyes like acid. There are loud male voices, but he cannot follow the words. There is a confusion of scents as well: harsh cleaning fluids, sweat, leather, and an unidentifiable chemical tang.

As he tries to sort out this rush of sensory information, he feels a weight digging into his lower back. The cord around his elbows is suddenly cut, and the manacles around his wrists are removed. He lets out a muffled howl when his arms, held so tightly behind him for as long as he remembers, are pulled to his sides. Somebody barks out a word, and he is no longer being held down. Hands and feet flip him onto his back, and the searing flames in his eyes become even worse. Then he is being lifted and carried, and a moment later he is dropped onto cold metal.

His limbs are immediately grabbed and his wrists are locked at his sides. Instinctively, he tries to kick away the hands at his feet, but when his right foot connects weakly against a hard belly, a bolt of agony shoots through his head. He arches his back and screams into the gag again, and he can dimly make out laughter as metal restraints are fastened tightly around his ankles. A leather strap is buckled around his chest and another across his hips. The pain is still echoing in his skull as he tries to turn away from the overhead light, and, as he begins to move, he realizes that he has been attached to a gurney. He can hear its wheels rattling as he is pushed smoothly away.

His journey seems like a long one, or maybe the men are just pushing him slowly. They seem to be bantering playfully with each other as they walk, but he is still having trouble making out what they are saying. The voices slide over him like waves.

Finally, the gurney slows and then makes a sharp turn to the right. He is pushed a little farther, and then his restraints are removed. Before he can react, though, he is lifted again and then plopped down onto more metal. His arms are quickly fastened again at his sides, so tightly that the metal digs sharply into his wrists. His legs are pulled up and wide apart and his feet are secured into stirrups. His knees are strapped as well, so that he cannot close his legs. More leather is buckled around his chest and his waist, and another strap is tightened around his head so that his face is fixed upwards. After a final few experimental tugs on the chains and buckles, one of the men pats him lightly on the cheek, and then the men walk away, still laughing. He hears a door shut behind them. His eyes are still closed.

He struggles uselessly against his bonds for a few moments and then lies still. The room is nearly as cold as his cell, and the metal does not warm at all under his body. He feels horribly exposed.

He does not know how long he is alone in the room, but gradually the pain in his eyes lessens enough that he begins to slowly open his lids. At first, everything is a blur of brightness and shadows. Gradually, though, shapes begin to clarify. With his head immobile, he can see little other than the ceiling, which is of white tile and seems high above him. Two light fixtures are set into the tiles, each containing three long fluorescent bulbs. He is thankful that they are not very bright. He can see the top of one wall, and it is also covered in white tile. He has the impression that the room is quite large. Even the tiniest sounds echo sharply.

At last, he hears the door open again, and there are more voices. A crowd of faces—seven or eight at least—suddenly looms over him, and when he sees what the people are wearing, panic crashes through him. He doesn’t know why he is so frightened by the white lab coats, but he pulls desperately against his restraints, moaning into the ball in his mouth. He is panting heavily through his nose. Then he feels a strange shifting in his face, as if the bones were rearranging themselves. It feels odd, yet familiar. His eyesight is suddenly sharper and the moaning morphs into a loud growl. His teeth ache as he grinds them into the gag.

The people just watch. Some of them make notes on clipboards.

All at once, all the strength leaves his body and he lies still again in his bonds. He feels his face shift again and he presses his eyes closed as if that will make the people disappear.

But of course they do not disappear, and a moment later he hears them moving about the room. Metal squeaks and rattles, and he hears the opening and shutting of, perhaps, cabinet doors. There is quiet conversation. A very bright light blooms over him, and he his glad that his eyes were already shut.

Then a soft hand rests on his sternum. He flinches. “All right,” a woman says briskly. “Let’s get this done.” Instantly, a needle is plunged deeply into his chest. He hardly has a chance to register that before he feels another in his neck, and one in the crook of his left elbow.

His eyes fly open in shock. There is a face bending quite close over his. It is difficult for him to see very well with the corona of the light behind it, but he can see that it’s a woman. She is not young—late 50’s, maybe—but attractive in a no-nonsense sort of way. She has very short blonde hair and she is frowning thoughtfully at him. He wants so badly to ask her who he is and what’s happening to him, but he can only moan pleadingly. He feels tears slipping out of his eyes and down the sides of his face. She watches dispassionately for a moment and then steps out of his sight.

Another hand, this one larger and coarser, presses high on his left thigh, and then something long and hard is thrust into his rectum. It hurts. He tries to expel it, but another hand bears against his opening and keeps it pressed inside.  Fingertips dig into the wasted muscle of his leg. “Sixteen point five six. Same as room temp.” He can hear pens scratching across paper as a man makes this announcement, then, to his relief, the thing is pulled out of him. The man gives a hard squeeze to his thigh before letting go.

His sluggish brain is just beginning to turn over the meaning of what the man said when he feels a sharp slice across his chest, just above his right nipple. He smells his own blood. Suddenly, everything else—the pain, the cold, the confusion—is washed away in a red tide of _hunger_. His concave belly clenches tight as a fist and the bones of his face reshape themselves. His chest rumbles with another growl, but the dark-skinned woman at his side simply continues to cut, and then she is holding a bloody scalpel in one hand and a three-inch square of his skin in the other. Someone holds a plastic dish in front of her and she places the skin in it, but he can only stare at the blood beading at the edge of the blade. A drop falls down and out of his line of sight. He feels it land on his arm. His body nearly convulses with his need. His wrists wrench against the metal restraints so that the tender skin there is torn and bleeding, too, and his hunger becomes so frantic that for a few seconds he is literally blinded.

But the people around him just continue poking and prodding and taking notes, muttering softly to one another. The hunger recedes to its more normal, merely desperate level, and his muscles all relax at once. His face shifts again. He can still feel the tears trickling down his face, and he wishes he could raise a hand to rub them away. They itch.

For an eternity, the people continue their examination of his body. At one point, electrodes are attached to his head. A machine of some sort is wheeled next to him—he can just barely see it out of the corner of his eye—and the blonde woman watches the machine’s screen with great interest. “Have its head shaved next time,” she orders the young man next to her. “It makes it much easier to attach them.” The man nods and writes on his board. Meanwhile, he can feel warm hands measuring and cutting and pinching.

None of it hurts too badly, really, and after a while he feels almost disconnected from his body, as if he were merely some sort of observer. Aside from the time when a gray-bearded man shines a small light into his eyes, nobody even looks at his face.

So he is almost startled when the blonde lady appears again in his field of vision, frowning down at him. She says, “I need that gag removed so I can question the subject.” He has just a moment to think, _Oh, the subject. I guess that’s what I am_, and then hands are fumbling with the straps around his face, and he is crying again as he realizes the wretched metal ball is finally going to come out of his mouth.

When the gag is taken out, it feels like his jaw is being ripped off at the hinges. But he doesn’t care. He hears himself groaning but almost welcomes the pain as he slowly eases his mouth closed, gingerly clenching his teeth and working the agonized muscles. Then he opens and closes again a few times. He gently licks his dry, cracked lips and is thrilled with this small freedom.

“What’s your name?”

The blonde repeats the question twice before he realizes she is talking to him. His brow furrows in puzzlement.

“Answer me! What is your name?”

“P-p-please…” His whisper is so quiet even he can barely hear it. His throat feels like a desert on fire and his tongue sticks to the inside of his mouth. “P-please. Wha-what’s happening?”

The blonde reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a gray plastic box. It looks a bit like a television remote control. She stabs at it and a paralyzing agony tears through his head again. He screams, and now that his mouth is free, his scream echoes deafeningly against the white tile walls.

She waits for him to become silent again and then she waves the box over his head. “I don’t have all day for this. Now, answer my question. What is your name?” Even though she sounds angry her face remains quite calm.

“I, I, I don’t know!” And he is ashamed to hear the sob in his voice.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You don’t know your own name?”

“I can’t re-remember. Can’t remember anything!”

She shows him the box again. Her finger hovers over it. “You’re lying. Tell me who you are or I’ll press it again.”

He’s still feeling the aftershocks from the first time she used the box, and another sob is wrenched from his throat. “P-p-please!” he cries. “D-d-d-don’t. Can’t remember. P-please!”

He tries to steel himself for more pain, but she allows herself a small, pleased smile and turns to the bearded man beside her. “Good. The wipe is holding.” At her pronouncement, the other people all scribble busily. She replaces the box in her pocket. “All right, people. That’s enough for this time. Pack it up. Simpson, call and tell them they can take it away now.”

The bright light over his head is turned off and wheeled away. He hears more sounds of cabinet doors and rattling metal. The conversations are a little louder and more animated. The people around him sound like many employees do at the end of a workday, when they know they will be going home soon. He imagines some of them getting together for a drink or two, after. He wonders if he used to do that.

The dark-skinned woman is above him, pushing the gag toward his mouth. He frantically tries to keep his mouth closed, but someone is behind him, pushing thumbs _hard_ into his still-agonized jaw muscles, and the metal ball is pressing his lips into his teeth. The inside of his lip is torn and he has a split second to exult at the taste of blood when the woman shoves the gag into place. The straps are tightened around his head. He tries to howl. He feels his face begin to deform again, but then he is overcome by sheer exhaustion and despair, and his face melts back into its usual planes.

After a few more minutes of bustle, the door opens shuts again, and he is alone in the silent room.

A dozen new bruises and pinpricks worry at him now, and his chest feels stinging and raw where the woman removed the patch of skin. His head is heavy and sore. His old companions are here, too: the squeezing of cramped and torn muscles, the shiver and ache of cold on his skin and in his bones, and of course the endless emptiness in his stomach.

He lies bound and exposed on the metal table, and he waits.

 

When the door opens this time, he can tell immediately from the scents that the men who brought him to this room have returned. They come to stand around him for a minute. There are four of them. They are young and jovial and dressed in green fatigues.

One of them, an Asian bloke with a short brush cut and a deep dimple in one cheek, smiles at him sweetly. “Didja have fun today, Seventeen?” And then waits expectantly, as if there will be a reply.

He is still trying to make sense of the question when another of the men, this one a scrawny brunet, reaches up and strokes his cheek. “This one’s kinda pretty, isn’t it? Like a girl?”

A third one grabs his bollocks and squeezes gently. “Not quite like a girl, huh?” The men laugh as he tries vainly to press his legs together. The man holding his bollocks has bad skin and looks like he spends a lot of time in the gym. He hasn’t shaved very closely either, perhaps in an attempt to hide some of the acne. He rubs his thumb gently across the scrotum while the other men watch with amusement. Then he squeezes again, hard this time, and pulls down sharply. He smiles at the muffled yell this produces.

“Okay guys, quite fucking around. I wanna get out of here today.” This is the fourth man speaking. He is tall and handsome and, aside from the fatigues he’s wearing, looks like he just stepped off a fashion runway.

The skinny kid disappears for a moment and then there is the sound of metal wheels as he reappears. “You aren’t gonna give us any trouble this time, are ya, Seventeen?” asks Pretty Boy as the restraints are quickly loosened.

_Seventeen_? he thinks. And then he is being lifted again and refastened to the gurney, and the gurney is being pushed through the doors.

This time, he can see that he is in a long, narrow corridor. It, too, is white-tiled. It is nearly featureless, aside from the heavy metal doors that appear at regular intervals on either side. The doors are painted a dull green, and each has a number stenciled on it in black. There are no windows. At one point, he can faintly hear some other voices, as if they are far away, but they don’t pass anyone else in the hallway. The men are talking again, discussing a contest between the Chargers and the Niners. This confuses him for only a second, and then he realizes they are discussing a game. Football. _American_ football, something in his head insists, and he has a few moments to mull over exactly what that means.

But then they are stopping, and he sees they have reached the end of the corridor, which has widened out here into something like a small, open room. “Home again!” smiles the guy with the dimple.

The straps and bars are removed again. Pockmark grabs him under the arms and hauls him off the gurney. He tries to stand, but his legs instantly give out and he collapses face-first onto the ugly brown floor. The men are quickly on top of him, holding him down and wrenching his arms behind his back. His face is pushed against the floor, and he is struggling to breathe through his flattened nose. He hears the manacles click into place around his stinging wrists, and his elbows are again tied tightly together.

There is a hard, stinging slap on his arse. “Ya know, guys, we still got a little time to kill before we can leave.” This is Scrawny’s voice. He sounds even younger than he looks. Someone slaps him again.

His legs are pulled far apart and then held firmly in place. He realizes with sick certainty what is about to happen and he tries to struggle free. The grip on his head and shoulders loosens, and he has a wild moment when he thinks he might buck at least one of them off. “Dammit! Hold it still!” one of the men shouts. But when he knocks his forehead against someone’s flailing arm, that horrible pain rips through his brain again, and it’s all he can do remain conscious.

His neck is pinned down by a heavy boot. He can smell mud and grass imbedded in the thick sole. The men laugh and smack his arse a few more times. “Shit, it’s a feisty one, huh? That’s okay—it’s more fun when they move around a little.” Pockmark has a southern accent that seems more noticeable now.

He hears zippers opening and clothes rustling. There is the sound of spitting, and a soft slap of flesh on flesh, and then a large hand is pushing down between his shoulders. Another slap, and then a hand is pressing between his buttocks, spreading them apart, and the head of someone’s cock is up against his hole. All his muscles tense. His face shifts again and he is snarling and growling against the gag, and he realizes he can hear the wild _thumpity-thump _of the men’s hearts and smell the musky odor of their arousal. Then there is sudden ripping pain as the man breaches him and sinks into his body. The man slides nearly completely out and then pushes all the way back in. He feels the man’s bollocks slapping against his arse as the man begins to pound into him.

“Fuck!” gasps Dimple. “It’s really tight. This one must’ve been turned a virgin.” The punishing beating into his torn passage becomes faster and harder and the man is panting loudly. Drops of sweat are falling off the man’s face and landing on his back. Dimple wheezes, “Fuck!” again, and then collapses down, covering his lower torso. He can feel the man’s chest rising and falling against him. Then he moans as the man rises up, pulling his softened cock free. Lukewarm liquid oozes sickly down his crack, pooling between his legs where his scrotum is pressed to the floor. He smells come and his own blood.

There is shifting among the hands and knees pinning him down, and a moment later another man is crouching over his spread thighs. This man plays with him, shoving a hand underneath him to stroke at his flaccid penis, spreading his cheeks wide and pushing them back together again, pinching hard on the skin just above the crease of his leg, pressing almost tenderly around his damaged anus. “We don’t got all day, shithead,” someone says.

“Yeah, Hicks, save it for your girlfriend,” says another. There are hoots of laughter as another hard cock is pressed painfully into him.

He tries to concentrate on other things: the odd, heavy feeling of his brows; the ammonia smell of the floor; the stinging pain where his flayed chest is pressed against the tile. Perversely, a part of him even takes a small comfort in the heat where the men’s bodies press against his chilled skin. He tries to will his muscles to go completely limp. But he can’t stop the rumbling growl in his chest, and he can’t keep from trying to flinch away as each of the men takes a turn at raping him. The cotton fatigues rub against the abraded flesh of his legs like sandpaper.

When he is pulled over onto his back, his face changes back once again, and he is relieved as his senses seem to dull a bit. Pretty Boy and Dimple are still holding his legs to the floor. His eyes close in resignation and fatigue. But they fly open again when his face is suddenly hit with a spray of warm liquid. Pockmark is standing over him, holding his dick and smirking while he pisses on him. He turns his head to the side and tries to blink the stinking urine out of his eyes. He can feel it pooling in his ear and running down the side of his neck.

Pockmark tucks his cock back into his trousers and zips up. He steps between his open legs and uses his big, black boot to toe playfully at his crotch. “Huh,” he sneers. “I thought these things were all fuckin’ sex maniacs. This one can’t even get it up.” The man lifts his knee up and then stomps down with his heel, _hard_. A white wave of agony radiates from his testicles to every point of his body, and his lower belly clenches sickeningly. He groans heavily against the gag.

He tries to curl his body into the pain, but he remains pressed flat to the floor, his arms trapped beneath him. Then there is a familiar metallic screech, and he is dragged backwards by his ankles. He does not try to resist. Boots kick and push at him, and he falls, and he lands on his side on rough stone with a jarring _thunk_. Another loud squeal, a heavy crash, and he is in the dark once again, in his cell.

 

Seventeen—for he has begun to think of himself by that name—finds it difficult to tell in the blackness of his cell when he has slept. In fact, it is his best hope that all of this is a terrible nightmare. He is not truly sitting hunched in a hole, and he will soon awake in a warm, comfortable bed. He imagines standing and slowly stretching muscles that are no longer cramped and sore, and then padding into the kitchen to eat a huge breakfast. He tries to picture walking through the doorway to find a plate overflowing with piping-hot eggs and sausages and thick toast slathered with butter. But what he sees in his mind instead is a heavy wooden table, and tied across the top of that table is a man in fatigues. The man’s eyes and mouth are wide with terror. His shirt collar is torn open and his neck is stretched to one side. A vein pulses visibly in that white neck, so much hot blood rushing by, so close.

Disturbed and frustrated by this vision, Seventeen shakes his head. He cannot convince himself that he is only sleeping. He sifts through the strange bits of information he gleaned while he was out of the cell, and tries to assemble them into a coherent and logical whole.

Perhaps he is a loony, and all of this is simply a delusion. In reality, he is safely secured in a straightjacket, locked away in a nice padded room. Any time now someone will come along and give him an injection of some agreeable drugs and this madness will gently fade away. Or at the very least, be replaced by the soft fog of sedation. Yet this feels too bloody real to be a delusion, too detailed, even too bizarre.

He finds that with only a little effort, he can shift his face back and forth at will. When his face changes, he feels stronger, angrier, wilder. He finds it more difficult to think clearly, which is a good thing, because otherwise his thoughts seem to just circle dizzyingly through his brain. But when he is changed, his unbearable hunger becomes, impossibly, even worse, and his teeth ache where they press against the metal of the gag.

So mostly he remains in what he thinks of as his normal countenance, although of course without the ability to see or feel it, he has no way to know how normal it really is. In fact, it occurs to him that he could be some sort of freak, which would explain his presence in this place. Maybe he is even an experimental creation, a Frankenstein’s monster. As he contemplates this notion, however, a word materializes in his head.

_Demon_.

And that feels so right that he suddenly realizes the truth of his situation. He is in hell.

Whoever he used to be, he has clearly committed great evils. And now his punishment is eternal torment at the hands of devils disguised as scientists and soldiers. He does not understand why the conditions of his damnation should include the ability to change how he looks, but he supposes that maybe the mystery itself is part of the ordeal. Or maybe there is some sinister purpose to it that will become clear later.

He shudders and sinks to his side, knees and chin curled into his chest. He attempts to clear his mind, to think nothing at all, but he cannot. He wishes he could at least clean himself up. His nostrils are assaulted with the smells of his degradation: odd chemicals and urine and sweat and semen and, maddeningly, his own dried blood.

 He wonders how long eternity is.

 

The next time he hears the pounding of approaching footsteps, he recognizes the sound and has just enough time to huddle in the corner of his cell with his eyes clamped tightly shut. Of course this doesn’t keep him from being pulled roughly through the metal trap door, but at least this time he is better protected from the sudden light. By the time he is bound to the gurney, he is able to slit his eyelids open a bit, just enough confirm what his nose has already told him: the four demons who raped him have returned.

Dimple is smiling down at him. “Rise and shine, Seventeen! Didja miss us?” Dimple pats his head. He jerks away, as much as the straps allow, and Dimple laughs.

He is more alert this journey down the corridor, and he casts his head from side to side, looking for any clues as to where he is, any shred of possibility for escape. But all he sees is the fluorescent lights set into the ceiling above him, and the series of ugly green doors.

The gurney comes to a stop. Pretty Boy slides a plastic card into a slot on a door. He removes the card and opens the door, and the gurney is wheeled in. The door slams behind them.

Although this room, too, is lined in white tile, it is much smaller than the one he’d been in before. Panic rushes through him as soon as he takes a breath: the room stinks of fear and excrement and old blood. He struggles frantically against the metal and leather but he cannot loosen his fetters even a little. The men just watch him, amused. He soon lies still except for his heaving chest and darting eyes. The walls are hung with shelves and hooks which store a variety of chains and other, less easily identifiable objects. Seventeen does not want to identify any of them.

Three of the men walk behind the gurney, where he cannot see them. The fourth one, Pretty Boy, remains at his side. He pulls something small out of a pocket—a mobile phone, it looks like—and fiddles with the buttons. The other soldiers are moving around behind him. Chains rattle loudly. One of the men is whistling, but Seventeen doesn’t recognize the tune.

Pretty Boy puts the phone back in his pocket, and the other men gather around to help remove the restraints. Pockmark and Pretty Boy grab him under the arms and haul him upright, then drag him quickly backwards toward the center of the room. His arms are lifted wide apart and his wrists are locked firmly into shackles that hang from the hooks in the ceiling. His legs are also spread and chained tightly to the floor. There is a black metal drain in the floor between his feet. The men release him and step back.

At first he is unable to stand by himself, so his entire weight hangs painfully from his upper limbs. After a few minutes of struggle, he manages to steady his legs, but he still sways a little on his feet.

Pretty Boy grabs something from a shelf and steps behind him. Seventeen can tell now how very tall the man is—he towers over him by at least half a foot. Pretty Boy grabs his hair and pulls his head slightly backwards. There is a buzzing sound, which makes Seventeen flinch, but then he feels the vibration on his scalp and he realizes that his head is being shaved. When Pretty Boy pushes his head to the side, he can see a pile of his hair atop the drain. The strands were quite long, a little curly and honey-colored, except for the few inches at the tips, which were bleached almost white. The buzzing stops and Pretty Boy rubs his hand back and forth over the naked scalp. Now his head is cold, too.

He watches as the man returns the razor to the shelf. Scrawny is still whistling softly and looking bored. Dimple is leaning in one of the corners of the room, arms crossed on his chest, grin plastered on his face. Pockmark just stands in front of him and watches him expressionlessly.

“’Kay, Hicks, you’re up,” says Pretty Boy, and Scrawny ambles over with something small in his hand. He picks a small metal bowl off the shelf and fills it from a hose that is attached to a wall. He kneels in front of Seventeen and looks up, smiling. Then he reaches forward and grabs Seventeen’s cock. Seventeen starts violently, nearly losing his footing, but Hicks squeezes tightly until he settles.

“You’re not gonna wanna wiggle too much right now, Seventeen,” he chuckles. He holds up the item in his hand, which turns out to be a straight razor. The blade gleams in the overhead lights. Seventeen tries to stand very still, and Hicks begins to shave his groin. He is surprisingly gentle as he scrapes away, sometimes lifting his cock to get it out of the way, sometimes pausing to dip the blade in the bowl of water. The other men are having a quiet conversation in the corner, but Seventeen is too tense to pay attention to what they are saying. Hicks giggles softly when the blade slips a little and he nicks the scrotum, but his balls are soon made bare and smooth without further accidents. Hicks runs his hand over the newly shaved area and says, “Well, that oughta do it.” Seventeen lets out a relieved puff of air when Hicks finally stands up. He dumps the bowl into the drain, rinses the blade with the hose, and then puts them back on the shelf.

He comes back with the hose in his hands. Before Seventeen can really brace himself, a hard stream of water is hitting his face. He tries to turn away so he can breathe, but the water is so bloody cold that he’s breathless from the shock of it. Hicks gradually moves the hose down his body, and it hurts when the water hits his skinned chest, which is not yet completely healed, and it hurts even more when the full force of the stream is turned on his crotch. Then Hicks moves around to his back, making the many abrasions there sting. When he gets to his arse, Hicks stands very close and aims the hose carefully between his cheeks. Finally, Hicks turns the hose off, and Seventeen is left dripping wet and shivering violently.

The shivers don’t stop as Hicks puts the hose away and then all four men move in close, grinning at him predatorily. “Aren’t you a pretty bitch now?” smirks Pockmark, who steps forward and starts fondling Seventeen’s balls. “Nice ‘n smooth and squeaky clean, huh? Now, let’s see if this thing works.” He wraps his other hand around Seventeen’s cock and strokes slowly up and down. He pulls back the foreskin and rubs his thumb across the spongy head, presses his thumbnail into the slit. Seventeen closes his eyes and pants through his nose.

While Pockmark continues caressing his cock, Dimple moves close behind him and starts to knead the cheeks of his arse. He whispers in his ear, “You like this? You remembering how it felt when I was slamming into this tight ass? All that big heat moving around inside you, filling your greedy little hole.” And as he says that, Dimple pokes a thick finger deep inside him, and then moves it in and out to the same rhythm as Pockmark’s stroking.

He feels his cock begin to stiffen and lengthen. He moans a little, caught between the heat of the two men against him. Pockmark begins to pull harder and more firmly. Dimple pushes in a second finger, and it hurts where he is still tender from being fucked. But Dimple crooks his fingers and presses against his prostate, and he is now fully erect. The other men stand close by, watching, and he hears their breathing get faster and a little raspier.

The rhythm of the stroking and finger-fucking quickens. Pockmark swipes his thumb in the pre-cum that is beading on the head of his cock and spreads it over the shaft. He is using his other hand to roll and squeeze his balls. “Yeah, you like it, bitch,” whispers Dimple. “Look at you, all hard and wet. Monster like you, just loves bending over and taking it up the ass. Betcha ya love to suck on a nice big cock, too, huh? Love to get that pretty face fucked?”

Seventeen whimpers and throws his head back. His eyes are still shut. A good part of his weight is now resting on Dimple’s chest, and he is trying with all of his will not to thrust his hips into Pockmark’s warm hands. But he can feel his balls tightening, and, although he has no real recollection of ever reaching an orgasm, his body does remember the feeling, and he knows his release is close.

Suddenly, Pockmark lets go. “Moua, knock it off,” he says, and the other man slides his fingers out of his arse and steps away. Seventeen almost loses his footing again. He hears himself whimpering again and opens his eyes just in time to see Pockmark tying a leather strap tightly around his balls and the base of his cock. “There,” he leers. “That’ll hold you a while. Oughta tie a bow around it.”

Pretty Boy moves forward and claps his hands. “Okay, kids, let’s get this show on the road.”

When the manacles are released, he collapses to the still-damp floor. The men unchain his ankles as well, and he is soon back on the gurney and resuming his journey. His bound cock juts stiffly, the head weeping and nearly purple. It bobs against his belly as they rattle down the corridor.

This time, they encounter a small group heading the opposite way. Three people in fatigues are leading a creature by a leather leash fastened to a collar. The creature is small and wiry, with pebbly gray-green skin and a crest of sharp spines running down its pointed head. Its has an odd gait, and Seventeen realizes that its knees are articulated backwards, like an ostrich. _T’ritha demon_, says the voice in his head, and he wonders how he knows that. It is muzzled and heavily chained. Its head is bowed and its slanted eyes are cast downward toward the floor.

Both groups pause as they meet up, and brief greetings are exchanged. One of the other people, a short young woman with brown hair pulled into a ponytail, looks down at him and then bats playfully at his rigid cock. She giggles a little as it bounces back and forth. Then she sets her face into a cute little pout. “Aw, man! It’s not fair. How come we’re always stuck with these ugly fuckers,” she waves backwards, towards the T’ritha, “and you guys get to play with the pretty vampire?”

Seventeen does not hear whatever response she receives. He is too busy mentally reeling in response to that last word.

_Vampire_?

 

He is immobilized on the table in the big room again, and the four soldiers have left, but he barely notices. He’s still replaying the cow’s whiny little voice in his head.

Is he a vampire?

It would certainly explain a lot, most especially the way his stomach clenches greedily at the smell—hell, even at the _thought_—of blood. He changes his face and tries to tell if his teeth feel, well, fangier, but it’s impossible to tell with the ball gag in place. He changes back so he can think more clearly.

He realizes that if he is a vampire, then he is the demon, and the scientists and soldiers who have tormented him are probably just people—human beings. This must be some place where demons are imprisoned. For experimentation? For punishment? For the amusement of their captors?

This line of thought raises even more questions, and he is just starting to contemplate a few of them when the door opens. The blonde woman and her white-coated minions cluster around him, and he can’t help the thrill of terror that rushes through him. She puts her soft hand on his head and rubs back and forth a little before removing it. Then she stares down between his spread legs at his hard and aching cock and frowns disapprovingly.

“Well,” she says. “Let’s get this done, shall we?”

He is not sure whether all the people in lab coats are the same as last time, but he recognizes the pudgy man with the curly black hair. He is the one who took his temperature. Now, the man moves out of his line of sight and between his legs. He rests one hand on Seventeen’s right foot, which, like the left foot, has been attached again to the stirrups. “Should we take care of this first, Professor Walsh?” He has a deep voice; Seventeen thinks he sounds like a radio announcer.

“No. I want to get the baseline measures first.”

The minions start scurrying about. The throbbing in his swollen cock and balls becomes increasingly intolerable as the rest of his body is prodded and appraised. Electrodes are affixed to his now-bare head, and Walsh stands watching the monitor and taking notes for what feels like hours. The pudgy man inserts the rectal probe again, and if he notices the damage to Seventeen’s sore hole, he doesn’t say anything. The dark-skinned woman is there, peering at his chest to see how much of the skin has grown back. Everybody works very efficiently.

Professor Walsh hovers over him and shows him what she has clutched in her hand: the gray plastic box. He tries frantically to shake his head no, but the strap around his forehead is too tight. He is making a noise somewhere between a moan and a whine.

“I’m going to have your mouth freed so you can answer some questions,” she says briskly. “I don’t think I need to remind you what happens if you are noncompliant.” He blinks his eyes rapidly and tries to convey the message that he understands, that he’ll be good. She looks skeptically at him and then makes an impatient gesture. A moment later he is moaning again, this time in relief as the gag is removed.

“Let’s try this again. What’s your name?” Her thumb is poised over the button.

His words tumble out in a garbled mess as he tries to answer before she can push it. “P-p-please! Don’t…c-c-c-can’t…trying…please!”

She sighs and her thumb moves downward infinitesimally.

“No!! I d-don’t know!” the last word leaves him in a desperate wail.

She presses the button.

His screams are still echoing in the room, but he is trying to clear his head because she is talking to him again.

“Are you really this stupid? Who are you?”

Desperately, he cries out, “Vampire!”

Walsh freezes and one of the other people gasps. For once, everybody is staring at his face.

“_What_ did you say?”

He swallows convulsively and answers in a whisper. “I-I-I’m…I think…I’m a vampire.”

“What makes you think you’re a _vampire_?” She spits the last word out like it disgusts her to even say it.

“Girl…the, the, the soldier girl in the corridor. Called me a v-vampire. Am I?” He looks pleadingly up at her as he asks this.

Walsh visibly relaxes, as do her minions. She pockets the box, picks up a clipboard, and writes for a moment. He is opening his mouth to ask…something…maybe a plea to be fed, when she looks back at him and he stops. Then she glares at the man next to her. “Obviously, the wipe is still good. Replace the gag.” And once again he is silenced by the hateful metal ball.

“Now, Professor Walsh?” says the man with the radio announcer voice, and Walsh nods. A hand presses hard just below the jut of his right hipbone. Another cradles his balls, as if it were weighing them, and then grasps the shaft of his cock right above the leather bindings. He makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. “Looks like they prepped him well…he’s about ready to go.”

“Just get it over with, Criswell,” the professor snaps.

He flinches as something cold and wet is wiped across the sensitive head of his penis. He smells surgical spirit. He has a sudden image of a scalpel drawing near his flesh. He is screaming into the gag and every muscle in his body vibrates as he struggles against the restraints. He doesn’t even realize that his face has shifted. But none of the scientists seem concerned, and he still can’t move.

Criswell roughly pulls back his foreskin and snaps something around him quite tightly, just beneath the glans. With a painful twist, he loosens and then removes the leather binding strap. Then he begins pumping his cock firmly and quickly. Professor Walsh is looking down at her clipboard. Seventeen is suddenly glad for the restraints, because he knows without them he would be pistoning his hips wantonly into Criswell’s fist.

He feels his balls draw tight against his body. He growls and comes so explosively his vision momentarily grays. He wants to howl with mixed pain and relief, but instead can only let his muscles suddenly slacken, and allow his face to morph back. He is crying again.

Criswell pulls on his cock two or three more times and then disconnects whatever he has attached to it. “Good sample, Professor,” he says.

Walsh finally looks up from her papers and makes an annoyed _tsk_ sound. “Fine, fine. But we’ll need another sample next time, too.” He realizes that this means he is going to be left intact, at least for now, and his head swims with relief.

 

When Hicks and Moua and the others come to retrieve him, he is staring up at the ceiling without really seeing it. A thick fog has settled over his mind, and he is waiting to slip completely into unconsciousness. He is weak from starvation and the aftermath of fear, drained by pain and misery. Before she left, Walsh had zapped him twice more with the blasted box, even though, bound and gagged as he was, he couldn’t possibly have been _noncompliant_ even if he’d tried. She pretended like she was testing something—took careful notes on her clipboard and all—but he saw the cold look in her eyes before she activated the button, and he suspects she just likes to watch him squirm and suffer.

He remains limp as he is transferred to the gurney, his arms and legs flopping bonelessly onto the icy metal. He barely blinks when Pockmark grasps his sore, flaccid cock and squeezes. “Guess they took care of you, huh?” he smirks.

Back in the corridor, he hears muffled screams coming from somewhere. They don’t sound human. The men pushing the gurney are unconcerned, talking with each other about some movie they’ve seen.

When they reach the end of the hallway, the men release him from the gurney. They shift him around so that his chest and head are resting on the metal surface and they refasten his arms behind him. His hips and legs are hanging over the end and Moua is trying to spread his ankles wide apart. But as soon as Moua lets go, his knees buckle and he collapses onto the floor, hitting his chin hard on the edge of the gurney as he falls. The men swear and kick at him for a minute and then haul him upright again. He tries to stand, he really does, but he does not have the strength, and he collapses again.

He is on his back near the wheels of the gurney, his legs twisted uncomfortably beneath him. The men stare down at him. “Nothin’ left but a bag of bones anyway,” Pockmark scowls in disgust and pokes at his side with the toe of his boot. Seventeen closes his eyes. He’s not surprised when he feels the warm streams of their urine hitting him, and his lids remain shut even as he is dragged feet-first across the floor and then shoved into the cell.

 

Back in the darkness, he huddles into himself. He prays that he will sink deeply into unawareness, even though he knows it’s unlikely any deity listens to a vampire’s prayers. He wonders if—somewhere—someone misses him. Can a vampire have friends? Lovers?

 

He may have slept a little, off and on, but when he hears footsteps again, the gods have not granted him the mercy of true unconsciousness. He has long since given up trying to catalog his injuries, and instead has been concentrating on the parts of his body that do _not_ hurt. There are precious few, and he suspects that after another session outside the cell, there will be fewer yet. Or maybe he’ll be lucky and they’ll finally just dust him this time.

It’s his usual friends in fatigues who yank him out of the hole and strap him to the gurney. Pockmark is sporting a black and swollen eye and a split lip and is in a foul mood. He is especially vicious when he tightens the belts and shackles around Seventeen’s body, so that Pretty Boy has to remind him that Professor Walsh will be angry if the subject is delivered too marked up. Pockmark snarls in reply, but steps back and lets Moua finish the job. As always, Moua is grinning widely.

They take him to the smaller room again, and this time he can’t stand on his own at all. The soldiers let him hang by his wrists as they shave him and hose him down. He looks down at his own trembling body and is dismayed by what he sees. His skin is ashy gray; it appears dry and cracked, like old stone, and his many cuts and abrasions have not healed at all. His rib cage protrudes over a belly so concave it practically adheres to his spine, and his pelvic bones jut out sharply below. His dangling legs are like fragile twigs, no muscle apparent at all.

Even his tormenters are sickened by his emaciated carcass. Pretty Boy seizes his cock and works it roughly, but he has a look of revulsion on his face, and this time, nobody bothers to fondle his arse or whisper filth in his ear. As soon as his cock is fully erect—and he is rather surprised that this is even possible for a creature in his state—the soldier ties a lace around the base. The manacles are released and he crumples helplessly to the floor, one cheek resting in the little puddle that has formed around the drain.

When the men go to attach him to the examination table in the large room, they discover that his figure is so wasted that the restraints remain loose, even at their smallest settings. Pretty Boy swears at this and he and Moua leave the room hurriedly. When they return a few minutes later, panting and sweaty, they are carrying several lengths of chain. They wrap these tightly around Seventeen and the table and secure the ends with a lock. He thinks they needn’t have bothered. They could have left him on the table completely unfettered, and he simply wouldn’t have had the strength to struggle.

Professor Walsh and her minions make faces at his condition when they come into the room. But they go ahead with the usual tests, and he doesn’t bother to try to follow their conversations. He barely reacts to them at all, in fact, only wincing when somebody does something particularly painful to his left foot. It feels like they may have actually cut off a toe, in fact, but he can’t be sure. He doesn’t suppose that it matters much.

He _does_ react, though, when Walsh pulls out the box. As the gag is removed, he’s hastily trying to figure out what he can say to avoid being zapped. He doesn’t think he could bear the flare of agony in his head, but he’s afraid there’s no way to stop it. So when his mouth is free, he says nothing, just looks at the blonde woman and waits. Surprisingly, she is silent for several moments as well. Her gaze is appraising. At last, she narrows her eyes.

“Tell me your name, vampire.”

His tongue is thick and clumsy in his mouth, and when he is finally able to speak, he can only exhale the thinnest of whispers. “Don’t know. Please. Please.” This is all he can manage and he knows his pleas will go as unheard as his prayers.

Walsh turns and snaps at Criswell, who, as usual, has stationed himself between Seventeen’s legs. “Collect the sample now. The subject might not survive another correction.”

And he is shuddering in his chains as the pudgy little man jacks him off, because it hurts, and he is humiliated by the bright stares of the surrounding scientists, and he is dreading what Walsh will do next, but the release still feels good—the only good he can remember feeling, in fact. When he comes he howls, and although his throat feels ragged and tight, his wailing echoes loudly in the big room and, most likely, through the corridor as well.

He is still feeling the aftermath of his orgasm—his whole body is shaking uncontrollably and he can feel his bones rattle—when Walsh turns her attention back to him. “Now,” she says calmly. Icily. “Your name.”

“…S-s-s-...” he stutters and she leans in closer.

“...Seventeen…” he gasps, but she is pressing the button even before he has uttered the entire word.

Mercifully, this time he blacks out.

 

He comes to back in the familiar darkness of his cell. He is lying face down, his knees bent slightly and his feet propped against the wall. His arms are bound behind him. There is a sharp pain in his nose, which feels clotted and swollen. He has several minutes of panic as he struggles to draw a breath through it, his mouth of course being once again stuffed with the gag. But he shortly realizes that he doesn’t actually need to breathe at all, and then he is motionless for a long time.

Eventually, and with excruciating slowness, he shuffles himself around so that he is on his side, his back flush against one rough wall, his knees bent closely against his chest, his head bowed. Then he is still again.

He can feel his skin drawing tighter around him, drying, fissuring at the creases. A red miasma creeps over his mind, and soon he does not feel pain or cold or terror. He cannot move, he does not think, is not aware of anything except for the single driving force that remains at the core of his being, that gnaws angrily but impotently from within him.

He is hunger, and that is all.

 

[Chapter 2](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/1995.html#cutid1)


	2. Chapter 2: Consulting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 2: Consulting** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 2: Consulting  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
---  
  
The slam of the front door wakes him up. He rolls over, looks at the empty space in the bed next to him. It’s still warm. He groans. Tries to remember what day it is, decides it doesn’t matter. He considers going back to sleep. His aching head likes that plan, but his bladder has other ideas.

He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and groans again. It’s not the scar; he’s used to that by now. A lot of guys even like it—it gives him a bad boy look that seems to attract certain men like flies to honey. Like the one last night. Matt? Mark? What’s disturbing him now is the overall look of his face: the greenish-gray pallor under his stubbly cheeks, the red where his eyes should be white, the puffy dark circles below. He looks like the walking dead. Strike that. He’s seen the walking dead, and they look better.

He splashes a little water on his face and pisses for what seems like hours. He considers which is less likely to make him puke: the current taste in his mouth, in which some small animal has apparently crawled up and died, or the taste of Berry Flavorburst toothpaste. He chooses the toothpaste.

He shambles into his small, neat kitchen and fumbles around with the coffee maker for a minute. He’s happy when the smell of the brewing brown stuff doesn’t send his stomach into any somersaults. He pours some into his biggest mug, the one Willow sent him as a joke, and stirs in some sugar. He’s not sure how much—he loses count after one.

Sitting down would be good now. He pulls out a chair and collapses onto it, shakily places the mug on the table, and buries his head in his arms. Then he smells beer, and, as his stomach lurches, looks up. Ah. The remains of a couple six-packs are scattered around the kitchen and, he sees as he looks through the doorway, the living room as well. A bottle on the floor near the couch has fallen over and there is a sticky-looking spot on the maple floor. A flash of memory: long tan leg tangling with his on the couch, kicking out wildly. That’s probably when they moved to the bed. Him and Max. Mike.

Almost against his will, his mind rewinds to yesterday evening. He’d sat around the house for a while, decided it was too quiet, too empty. Ended up at JJ’s, where the scene was always pretty lively. He’d spied the tall blond across the dance floor, or maybe the blond spotted him. They’d spotted each other. He was cute, sort of a surfer dude. And he was quite definitely human, with no plans to eat or possess him. Except in a good way, of course.

They’d made out on the light rail on the way home. A couple of skinheads in the car gave them the evil eye, but apparently decided that the two faggots were too much to take on. That’s another good thing about the scar: it makes him look dangerous when he needs to. All the time he spends at the gym doesn’t hurt either. And if a part of him was a little disappointed not to have an excuse to get in a good dust-up? There was always a friendly surfer to console him. Marco, definitely Marco. Or maybe Mick.

 

He feels a little at loose ends today. Restless. The hangover has faded and he really doesn’t have anything to do. The shop is closed for the whole week—Dan is off on his annual visit-someplace-sunny-and-warm trip—and puttering around by himself there isn’t going to make him any happier than sulking on the couch. So he sulks on the couch. Flips through all 387 channels on tv, and not a single thing worth watching on any of them. Thinks about digging out a DVD. Thinks about heading to the gym. Thinks about calling for a pizza. Thinks about jacking off. Finally decides he can’t stand his own company one minute longer, and throws on some sweats. It’s drizzling out; not too bad for a long run, though. Maybe after he’ll head over to Stumptown, have another coffee and mope in public instead.

 

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

What the fuck? Who’s calling him at the crack of dawn? He glances at his alarm clock. Okay. Not so crack of dawn. More like crack of noon, actually.

He sits up, rubs a hand over his bleary eyes, and grabs the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Harris?”

Crap. Good calls never start with some lady calling him Mr. Harris.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“General Shales would like to set up a meeting with you next week, please.”

Crap _crap_. He so isn’t in the mood for this.

“Fine. How about Tuesday? I have a thing on Monday.” He doesn’t really; just can’t stand the thought of starting the week with the general.

“The general is free Tuesday afternoon. I’ll arrange for a morning flight into LAX for you and call you with the details. We’ll send a driver to pick you up.”

“That’s fine.”

He hangs up and falls back onto his pillow. It’s been over a year since his consulting services have been requested. He snorts out loud. _Requested_. Demanded, is more like it. He guesses he ought to be thankful it’s General Shales and not the Watchers’ Council, or else he’d be jetting off to England instead on Tuesday. But he dreads having to drag himself back to California, dreads whatever project the general is going to rope him into this time. Last time it was wiping out a nest of K’z’zpon demons in Salt Lake City, and he’ll be perfectly happy never to set his eyes on one of those purple horrors again, thank you very much. Of course, this time it could be something worse.

Crap.

 

He has never once seen General Shales crack a smile. The man is always angry about something. Right now he’s angry because Xander Harris is late for their appointment, even though he knows it’s not Xander’s fault. LAX got closed down for a bomb scare after some genius tried to take a toy hand grenade through security, and there’s certainly nothing Xander could have done about that. Still, Shales frowns at him, even as he’s rising and extending his hand.

“Harris, good to see you.” Shales doesn’t look like he means this at all. But hey, he’s the one who called the meeting.

“General Shales. Sorry about the delay.”

The general waves his hand impatiently and gestures for Xander to take a seat. Xander does, and the two spend a moment sizing each other up.

General Shales is a few years from retirement. He’s compactly built and moves quickly; he is clearly a man who expects people to do what he tells them to. But despite his vigorous demeanor, his dark-brown skin has an unhealthy sheen to it, as if he has been ill lately.

Xander has stayed away from JJ’s, stayed away from alcohol entirely for several days, and is looking better for it. His skin is till pale, the curse of living in the Pacific Northwest, and he knows the scar stands out starkly across his cheek, but at least his eyes are clear. He’d thought about wearing his one suit, but rejected that idea in favor of khakis and a blue oxford shirt. If he’s going to drag all the way down here for a meeting he doesn’t want, he can at least be comfortable. Shales glares at his hair, probably comparing Xander’s shaggy mane to his own regulation brush-cut, but Xander figures he’s a civilian now, he can wear his hair however he wants.

“We need your help on a project the Initiative has been working on.”

Xander’s heart sinks. The Initiative. They’d recruited him shortly after he joined the Army. They thought he’d be a natural, given his experience and special, er, relationship, with demons. But he didn’t agree with their goals and he couldn’t stomach their methods, so he’d got himself transferred. It’s not that he minded killing monsters; he’d done plenty of that back in Sunnydale, and, with age and more training, turned out to be very, very good at it. But just give him a nice old bunch of Fyarls to blow up—he doesn’t want to drag them back to a lab and fucking experiment on them.

Xander shakes his head. “General, I’ve been working nicely with you guys for a while now—“

“—And we’ve been paying you nicely, Harris,” Shales interrupts.

“Yeah, you have. But not _that_ nicely. You know how I feel about the Initiative.”

“I do. And you know that I’m not happy with many of their undertakings either. But there’s been some pressure from above on this one, and I have to deal with it. And since you’re my consultant on all matters demonic, that means you have to deal with it, too.”

Xander sighs and rubs his face. “What if I want to retire my consulting business?”

Shales’s scowl gets even deeper. He stands up and walks to the window, gazing outside as if he can’t even bear to look at the other man. Or maybe he just enjoys his view of the parking garage.

“Harris, the United States government spent a lot of time and money on you and your training. You were the _only_ American chosen for special instruction with the Watchers’ Council. After that investment, we had hoped to get substantially more years of work from you—“

“That wasn’t my choice, and you know it.” Now it’s Xander’s turn to interrupt. “You asked. I told.”

Shales makes a sound of disgust and turns back toward Xander. “And you knew military policy on this matter before you enlisted.” He holds up his hands to stop what he knows the other man will say next. “Look, we’ve been through this before, Harris. None of it matters now. I have a problem, and you have an obligation to help me solve it.”

Xander groans and leans back in his chair with an air of defeat. They _had_ been over this before, more than once, and it never got him anywhere. They both know the truth, which is that General Shales has him by the balls. As long as he helps them out now and then, he gets to spend most of his time bored and happy in Portland, far from Hellmouths and creepy scientists. But if he refuses, Shales will hand him over to the Watchers, and then he’ll be stuck forever with a bunch of stuffy British guys. And Stephanie, the girl who’d become the Chosen One after Buffy died. He mentally shudders at that thought.

Shales has returned to his chair, and, seasoned warrior that he is, knows he’s won. He steeples his fingers on his desk.

“Due to the importance of this project, I have been authorized to pay you considerably more than the usual rate. One hundred thousand. Twice that if the project lasts more than a year.”

Xander perks up a little at this. He has a little money put away, earns some more doing part-time carpentry work for Dan, but this would go a long way toward keeping him stocked in microbrews and pizza. But—“More than a _year_?”

“You won’t be working on it all the time. Just checking in, now and then, really. Making some trips to the facility in Omaha, most likely.”

Great, Xander thinks. Vacationing in Nebraska, that’s everyone’s dream.

“And, Harris, you will have an unusual amount of autonomy as well. As I said, this is an important project, and we need someone who’s not overly sympathetic toward the Initiative.”

Xander snorts at this. No, definitely not overly sympathetic here.

“What do you mean by autonomy, General? If I say jump, they say how high?”

“Not quite. But they will be expected to abide by certain decisions you make.”

That is a bit too vague for Xander’s taste, but still, he likes the idea of it. Likes the thought of telling those jerks what to do. He wonders if that prick Finn is still involved. He hopes so. And he has a nice mental image of Finn having to follow his orders.

“One more thing, Harris, and I think you’ll like this. A great deal is riding on this project, especially for the Initiative. If it were to prove unsuccessful, well, the future of the Initiative itself might be in some doubt.”

And damned if the old man doesn’t smile.

 

The flight back to Portland is a short one, but he ends up next to a sullen teenager with a particularly annoying video game. He gives the kid dirty looks until he realizes that he’s become one of _them_—one of those old people who complains about These Kids Today. Then he turns and looks out the window instead, even though there’s nothing to see but clouds.

He takes the light rail back home. No skinheads, no surfer dude this time.

It’s dark by the time he arrives, and his house looks closed-up and lonely. It’s a nice place, actually, a yellow 1920’s bungalow with a detached garage and a wide front porch. And he’s spent a lot of time working on it, so it’s in really good shape. But it still manages to look neglected tonight. Forlorn.

So he’s tempted to switch on all the lights when he gets inside, maybe turn his stereo up loud. But instead he grabs a bottle from the fridge and sits down in his leather recliner with just a table lamp on. And he thinks about what Shales had told him.

Vampires.

Of course it has to be fucking vampires.

It wasn’t enough that they took Jesse. And Larry. And Buffy. And made pretty much every night of his teenage years a miserable mess. No, now they have to get mixed up with the fucking Initiative.

Not that the vampires were willing participants this time. Shales told him the basic plan: Capture vampires. Tame them. Train them. And then get them to kill other demons.

Xander has to admit, there’s some appeal to the idea of using vampires as demon exterminators. They’re stronger and faster than humans, they have better senses of smell and vision and hearing, and they’re damn well less easily damaged. Without realizing it, Xander fingers his scar as he thinks this. And if a vampire gets dusted in the line of duty, well, it has no family or friends who will mourn it.

But goddamn it, you can’t tame vampires! They’re not fluffy puppies or something—they’re evil, soulless killers who like nothing better than to snack on a nice, innocent human being.

According to Shales, the Initiative people think they’ve come up with a way to do it, some special method that gives them complete control over the bloodsucking monsters. He doesn’t buy it. He’s spent too much time around them, seen what vampires are capable of, even _with_ a soul. Plus, he really doesn’t want to have to watch those twisted scientists try, because he’s seen some of the sick shit that they like to do, and not even vampires deserve that.

Xander drinks deeply from his bottle. He thinks it’s ironic that some of the most depraved acts that he’s seen were committed by humans, not demons. Mayor Wilkins was human, at least to start with. Come to think of it, vampires were humans to begin with, too. And Jessica and Anthony Harris? Human. Or so they claimed.

He goes to take another sip and discovers that the bottle is empty. He begins playing with it, rolling it between his hands, ripping the label off into little tiny pieces. He gets up and grabs another and takes it back to his dim corner of the room.

As if the whole vampire-taming thing wasn’t idiotic enough, the Initiative has plenty more plans. Like what to do in case the supply of vampires runs low: make more! Oh, not from poor unsuspecting civilians, of course not. No, they want to take criminals, the ones serving life sentences or rotting on death row, and turn them. Make them useful to society and all. He’s seen what happens if you take an average teenager and make him a vampire. What happens if you add a demon to, say, Ted Bundy or Charles Manson?

Xander shivers and swallows his beer.

What if you run out of demons to kill? The Initiative has other plans for their pet vamps. Use them in battle, to avoid human casualties. Which is fine, as long as the battle takes place at night, he thinks. Or on a really rainy day. Use them to detonate bombs, clean up radioactive spills, dig through rubble at disaster sites, unclog sewers—really, anything that is too dangerous or unpleasant for humans to do.

And if that’s not enough to keep the vampires busy, just use them as personal servants. A perfect slave that never needs to be paid, never gets sick or dies. Just throw it some pigs’ blood now and then, and you’re good.

He turns off the light and takes another long drink.

[Chapter 3a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/2115.html#cutid1)  
 


	3. Chapter 3a: Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 3a: Training** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 3a: Training  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

LJ's making me post this chapter in two sections because it's pretty long.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
---  
  
It isn’t human.

It’s cold and slightly congealed.

But _Jesus_! It’s fucking _blood_, and it’s saturating his mouth with the taste of salt and copper, slipping soothingly down his arid throat, slowly dampening the fire in his center. With each swallow, he feels his skin moisten and mend, his wasted frame fill out a little more, his strength trickle back into his bones.

His eyelids tremble, almost open.

“Hey! The mummy wakes!”

“It’s a vampire, not a mummy, moron.”

“I know it’s a vampire, _moron_. I was just—“

“Boys!”

His mouth is suddenly empty and he groans. It isn’t enough yet, not nearly enough.

There is a shuffling noise to his right. A moment later something snakes into his open mouth, oh, and there’s some more of that lovely fluid dripping in and he groans again, this time in bliss at the taste, the feeling of being fed.

Slowly he works his eyes open, blinks a bit, waits for his vision to clear.

He is in the examination room. He’s back on the table. This time his feet aren’t in stirrups, but are instead spread and chained to the table. The rest of his body is securely restrained as well, but the entire table is tilted upwards a bit, so that his head is raised and he has a good view of the room in front of him. The room is filled with people—scientists in lab coats; Moua, Pretty Boy, and a few he doesn’t recognize in green fatigues. At the center stands Professor Walsh, a commanding figure with pearls in her ears and a silver clipboard in her hand.

He also has a good view down the length of his body. His frame is still skeletal, but the ashy tint to his skin is fading to his regular milky pallor. Needles and monitors are stuck in, and on, various parts of him. The needles are attached to plastic bags that hang on stands, but he’s not sure whether they’re introducing their multicolored liquids into him or drawing them from him. Something uncomfortably large is stuffed up his rectum; a black cord snakes from between his legs and attaches to a small machine on a cart. His groin is completely bare of hair, as if he has been freshly shaved. The littlest toe on his left foot is gone, but the wound has healed over, and if there is a scar, he cannot see it.

His mouth is propped wide open, but not by the usual metal ball. This time, a large ring has been jammed behind his teeth and locked in place with a strap around his head. A clear plastic tube is tethered to the ring so that the end of the tube is inside his mouth. Bloody saliva drools from the corners of his mouth; it runs down his chin and onto his neck and chest.

His head is immobile, but if he rolls his eyes far to the right he can see where the tube leads. It’s attached to another plastic bag on a stand, this one nearly full with red fluid. He swallows uncontrollably when he sees it, as if that might speed up the slow seep of blood into his mouth. Hicks and Pockmark are standing there. Hicks has an empty plastic bag in his hands, and Pockmark is leaning one hand on the stand and scowling at Hicks.

His scalp feels chilled in the cool air of the examination room, and he supposes that it is newly shaved as well. The puckery stick of electrodes dots his skull.

Walsh takes three steps closer to him, and he twitches. She reaches out one of her soft hands and pulls back his eyelid so she can peer closely at his eye. He realizes that he is wearing his other face—his demon face, he guesses. Her palm presses gently against the ridges of his brows. She smells like soap.

“You can hear me now?” she asks, lowering her hand and stepping back slightly.

He blinks his eyelids rapidly in response.

“You want me to stop the feeding?”

Even faster blinking, and this time he makes a sort of _ugh-ugh_ sound of denial, deep in his throat.

She chuckles drily. “I’ll take it that’s a no.” He can hear Hicks and Pockmark sniggering beside him, but he keeps his eyes focused on the woman. “Get rid of that loathsome face then.”

He wills his bones to remold, wondering for a moment what his demon face looks like. Hell, he wonders what his normal face looks like.

“Now,” she says, peering at him over her clipboard. “Blink once for yes, twice for no. Understand?”

He blinks once.

“Do you remember your name?”

He tenses, but he can’t see the gray box anywhere. He blinks twice.

“Do you remember anything about yourself, before you were here?”

Blink blink.

Now she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the box. He trembles.

“Do you remember what this does?” she asks, holding the box aloft.

Slow single blink and a strangled whine.

She walks over to where Pretty Boy is standing and hands him the controller.

“Okay, Sergeant Greco. Give it one more bag and then begin the training.”

Without another look at the vampire on the table, she turns and walks out the door, followed closely by the herd in white coats.

 

The room is silent, save for the quiet hum of the machines connected to him and the tread of the soldiers’ boots on the floor. All four men look down at him as if they have just been given a rather wonderful present. Moua’s teeth sparkle almost purple in the fluorescent light. The trails of pinkish drool dribble slowly down to Seventeen’s stomach, tickling him.

Clearly in no particular hurry, the men gradually disconnect needles and devices from his body. The tape holding the electrodes to his scalp stings a bit when Hicks tears them off. Pockmark leers at him and grabs the end of the rectal probe, spends a few seconds fucking him roughly with it before finally pulling it out with a jerk that makes him wince.

He can see now that one wall of the room is lined with heavy metal cabinets, painted the same dull green as the doors. The men are banging and slamming the cabinet doors as they put away the machines and equipment. Pretty Boy—Greco—swears and kicks at a cabinet that won’t shut all the way.

By the time the room is cleared, the last bag of blood is empty. Greco pulls the plastic tubing out of his mouth and hands it to Hicks. “Hope you enjoyed that, Seventeen. It’s the last free meal you’re gonna get.”

 

At this moment, he is as close to content as he can remember being. Although his belly isn’t really full, it feels comfortably heavy, and his hunger has been reduced to a pale shadow at the edges of his consciousness. The gags have been replaced by a thick leather muzzle that straps over his head and behind his neck. A metal flange extends from the muzzle inside his mouth, and it is still impossible for him to speak, but he can move his jaw a little, up and down, side-to-side. Other than the brief periods when Walsh has questioned him, this is the most freedom his mouth has had. He can even run his tongue over the edge of his teeth, and he wonders what that would feel like if he changed.

Aside from the muzzle, and a metal collar that is tight around his neck, he is completely unfettered. He can’t remember the collar being put on him; it seems to have appeared at some point before he was fed. It has a large ring set into the front, to which Greco had attached a leather leash. Then Greco had used the leash to pull him upright, off the table. He had leaned heavily against the table for a few moments, trying to steady his legs underneath him, and when the man pulled on the leash again he found that he could actually manage a few wobbling steps. Moua cuffed his hands behind his back and Greco led him into the hallway, the other three men trailing close behind them. He stumbled and fell to his knees twice as they walked, but each time he was pulled impatiently back onto his feet. It felt odd to be moving on his own, to feel the coolness of the ugly brown tiles under his heels.

The men had taken him to the smaller room. They pulled and shoved him inside then pushed him down onto his knees. Moua undid the cuffs and allowed his hands to fall to his sides; Greco unhooked the leash and hung it on the wall.

Now he kneels on the cold and unyielding tile; the men are gathered in front of him, just watching. His knees are beginning to ache quite badly, and he is anxious about the plastic box he knows is currently tucked in Greco’s shirt pocket, but it still feels bloody good to be fed and nearly unbound. Slowly and, he hopes, unobtrusively, he tightens and stretches the muscles in his shoulders and wrists.

“First lesson!” Greco barks out suddenly, and Seventeen flinches. “Proper kneeling position. Back straight. Hands behind your back. Hold your right wrist with your left hand. Knees wider apart.” The vampire hurries to comply, but Hicks strides over and kicks sharply at the inside of one knee, nearly unbalancing him. “Wider!” He spreads his legs more.

Now Hicks slaps him atop his head. “Stop staring at me! Eyes on the floor!” Obediently, he bows his head, gazes down at the man’s bootlaces.

Greco grunts with satisfaction. “This is how you will position yourself when ordered to Kneel. Understand?”

Seventeen nods.

It suddenly occurs to him that Hicks is only inches away from him, and that his hands and feet are, for once, unrestricted. He doubts he can overpower all four soldiers, but at least maybe he can bring one or two of them down. With a muffled roar, he lurches forward and reaches out his arms to sweep Hicks’s legs out from underneath him, his facial bones shifting rapidly as he moves. Hicks yelps and begins to fall, but at the same time the vampire is nearly paralyzed by a blast of agony. He screams and clutches at his head. Hicks scrambles to his feet as the other men surge forward, and then all four of them are kicking savagely at him while he tries to curl into a tight ball on the floor.

“Okay, enough!” yells Greco. Greco’s boot is planted firmly on the side of his face, digging into his cheekbone. Someone else’s heel is pressing excruciatingly against his balls. The men back off, panting and swearing. He moans and stares blankly at the white wall.

Greco shouts, “Kneel!” but when he merely lies still, he is hit by a second jolt. He screams again and his vision goes black for several seconds. When Greco snaps out the command again, he scrambles upright, onto his knees, swaying drunkenly but managing to maintain the proper posture.

“Second lesson, you stupid piece of shit,” hisses Greco. “You try to hurt a human, you end up in a world of pain. And I don’t even need this little baby, then.” He waves the gray box, which he now holds in his right hand. “The chip will fire automatically. Though I can always top it off with an extra zing, can’t I?” And he activates the controller, causing Seventeen to shriek and collapse.

He must have passed out this time, because when the pain finally recedes and his awareness returns, he is back on his knees. He is in his normal face. Now he is held in place by his arms, which are chained and suspended over his head. A spreader bar has been attached to his ankles and then tethered tightly to a metal ring set into the floor. The leash has been refastened to his collar and someone is standing directly behind him, holding the leash up and taut. His head is pulled back against this man’s crotch and he can feel the cotton of his trousers pressing into the back of his skull, and, underneath the cotton, the bulge of the man’s erection. The heavy smell of his sweat is nearly overwhelming.

Greco is standing in front of him with a big smile. “Now, Seventeen, seems like you owe my boy here an apology. Moua, get that thing off his face.” Moua steps forward and unbuckles the muzzle, throws the muzzle onto a shelf. “Apologize, motherfucker.”

He looks at Hicks, who is standing next to Greco with an expectant grin. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Nah. That’s not gonna do it, Seventeen.” The man behind him, who he realizes must be Pockmark, snaps the leash.

“Sorry, _sir_.”

Greco sniggers. “Actually, the proper term is _Master_.”

He swallows and chokes out, “’M sorry…Master.”

Greco turns to Hicks. “So, whattaya think? Are you satisfied with that?”

Hicks smirks and slowly shakes his head.

“I think he better apologize really_ nicely_.”

Seventeen frowns in confusion until Greco motions to Hicks, who walks closer until his crotch is nearly touching Seventeen’s face. Hicks unzips and the vampire tries to pull away, but that only pushes him tighter against the lump behind his head. Hicks pulls out his half-hard cock. Seventeen turns his face to the side, his mouth resolutely closed, but Hicks drags his cock gently up and down his face.

Greco holds the gray box a few inches from his nose, rocking it slowly back and forth. “Do I need to remind you what happens to naughty vampires?”

Seventeen whimpers quietly and turns his face forward again. He opens his mouth and closes his eyes. Hicks sticks just the spongy head of his cock between his lips, pulls it back, pushes it slightly back in, pulls back again and paints his lips and cheeks with spit and pre-come. “If I feel a tooth, we’ll pull every one of them out of your head,” he says, and then he rams inside.

He chokes and gags as the meat hits the back of his throat, but Pockmark is holding his head and keeping it still. When Hicks thrusts in again, his nose is pushed all the way into the man’s pubic hair and he is enveloped in Hicks’s pungent smell. Another thrust and he is still gagging, and then he remembers he doesn’t have to breathe. He tries to relax his tense muscles, tries to pretend a scrawny human kid isn’t busy buggering his face. Behind him, Pockmark rocks his hips, grinding his erection into his skull.

Hicks starts pounding faster, his rhythm becoming jerky. He pulls back a little and groans out a word: “Swallow!” Then Seventeen’s gullet is filled with bitter, slimy fluid and he gags again, but swallows it all.

Hicks removes his softening dick from his mouth and, with a sigh of satisfaction, tucks it back into his clothes. “Man, you suck, vampire!” he laughs, and the other men join in, as if this weren’t an old, old joke.

Seventeen dangles slightly forward, his stretched arms bearing his weight. He guesses that now the other men will take their turns using him, and he is right. First Moua, then Greco stand before him, cock stretching his mouth and pounding against his bruised throat, balls smacking his chin. Greco’s cock is as big as the rest of him. It takes him forever to come, and by the time he does, Seventeen’s knees, too, are singing with pain. It feels like he has ingested a gallon of semen and his stomach is clenched with nausea. He is trying desperately not to vomit, knowing that will only bring him a terrible punishment, and fearing he will also lose most of the precious blood as well.

Greco says, “You’re up, Turner.” Pockmark chuckles and uses the chain attached to the wrist shackles to haul Seventeen to his feet, cinching it high enough that he is perched on his toes. The spreader bar is still attached and his balance is precarious. When Turner slaps him hard on the arse he is knocked forward and has to scramble frantically to regain his footing. Turner laughs and slaps him again, harder, but this time he manages to only sway a bit.

Turner begins kneading his rump, squeezing and pinching hard enough to leave bruises. It comes as no surprise when he feels the blunt head of Turner’s cock pushing against his opening, and then pushing _in_, reopening the wounds that have only just healed.

Turner digs his fingers deeply into his hips and begins brutally driving in and out. Seventeen is snarling and growling uselessly as the other men look on with mixed expressions of amusement and lust. Turner is panting noisily in his ear; his breath smells like rotted meat. Then the man releases his right hand from his hip and reaches around to grasp his nipple. He pinches and pulls and then twists the sensitive flesh sharply, and when he comes he digs his fingernails in so far that Seventeen fears he will rip it off completely.

Moua shoves the ball gag back in his mouth while Hicks and Turner lower his arms and then bind them behind his back. Moua removes the spreader bar. Greco takes the leash and then the soldiers lead him down the corridor. As he walks, he feels the burn from the tears in his arsehole, the tickle of fluids dripping down his inner thighs and chest. When they pass a lone man in fatigues, walking the other way, the man just lifts an eyebrow and lets out a snort of laughter and continues on his way.

 

The next time the men pull him out of the cell, there is no gurney. Moua simply snaps the leash onto his collar and then he is pulled along. Hicks is carrying a large brown paper bag in one hand, and he worries about what might be inside.

“Goddamn!” Moua stops so suddenly that he nearly walks into his back. “Who the hell made this mess?” On the floor just in front of Moua’s feet is a large puddle of viscous fluid. It’s difficult to ascertain its color against the brown floor, but he can smell it. It smells fetid and vegetable, like a swamp on a hot day. Greco pulls out his mobile phone and orders someone to come clean it up, then Moua yanks Seventeen around the puddle and down the hall. A few yards farther and they stop in front of a door; when Greco opens it, he sees that they are at the training room again.

Inside the room, Moua removes the leash and unbinds his hands. “Kneel!” he commands, and Seventeen does.

One of the men stands in front of him. Greco, he thinks, but he is meekly looking down and can only see the man’s boots. “Are you hungry?” asks the man—yes, Greco.

He nods cautiously, remembering what Greco had said about no more free meals.

There is a rustling sound and Hicks says, “Look at this, Seventeen.” He does, and sees that Hicks is holding two clear bags in his hand. Blood. He doesn’t know how long he was in the cell this time, but he does know that his hunger has returned nearly in full force. He can’t help but stare avidly at the prized liquid. “All yours if you’re a very good little vampire.”

Greco says, “Are you a very good little vampire?” and he nods again.

“Next lesson. Stand!” And Seventeen rises to his feet, not very gracefully. “Hands laced behind your head, elbows out. Legs spread. Wider! Head down.” He is doing his best to comply, and Greco looks him over with a critical eye. “This is the position when you are ordered to Stand. Now, Kneel!”

Seventeen drops to the floor.

“Stand!”

He gets up again.

“Kneel!”

Greco alternates the commands, sometimes very quickly, until Seventeen’s legs become sore and his form has begun to slacken. Turner stomps over and shoves him hard in the back. Before he can stop it, his face has changed and he lets out a snarl, but he nevertheless allows Turner to yank and kick him back into proper Stand position. Then, without warning, Greco zaps him. He falls helplessly onto the floor, screaming into the gag and holding his head in his hands.

Turner pulls him back up. “Stand!” Greco orders, and, despite the pain and dizziness, he manages to get into the right stance.

Greco stalks over and stands very close to him. “You will _not_ show insubordination or disrespect, and you will _not_ make that fucking face without permission. Got it?”

He wishes he could put up more resistance. He’s sure vampires aren’t supposed to be so bloody weak and submissive, and every time he gives in so meekly to these sodding humans he disgusts himself. But the mere thought of the gray box fills him with terror. And a quiet voice in the back of his mind keeps reminding him that there are probably lots of worse things these people can think of to do to him as well. So, eyes downcast, he nods again and his face melts back.

He learns more lessons today as well. “Down” means to spread-eagle himself face-down on the floor. “Floor” means hands and knees on the ground, legs spread, head down. “Heel” means to crawl behind the man holding his leash, slightly to the man’s left and just enough behind him that the leash remains slack. He has to practice that command a lot before Greco is satisfied. It is difficult to pace his handler when his head is down, and as the handler changes his speed or turns one way or the other, Seventeen finds himself either crashing into his legs or being dragged by the neck. Turner follows behind, wielding a rattan cane, and every mistake he makes results in a hard lash to his buttocks or thighs. When they move onto the next lesson, his backside is covered in painful welts, some of which are bleeding sluggishly.

But it is the next command that he really hates: “Back.” He is expected to place his head and back on the floor, wrap his arms in front of his knees, and pull his legs far up and apart. The feeling of exposure this gives him makes him struggle to maintain his normal face. When Turner says, “Good bitch,” and uses the end of the cane to poke under his scrotum and against his anus, he growls and almost loses control completely. The growl earns him another excruciating jolt from the box in Greco’s hand.

After what seems like days, either the men have tired of these exercises or they are satisfied that he has learned well enough for now. Seventeen is Kneeling again, exhausted and trying not to stare at the bags of blood, which are now on a low shelf.

But Greco sees him looking. “You want that nummy blood, Seventeen?”

Careful nod.

“You’re going to have to learn how to ask nicely, then. Crawl over here.”

He shudders but complies, stopping when his head is inches from the man’s olive-clad knees. Greco unbuckles and removes the ball gag.

“Lick my boots.”

He hesitates too long and Greco uses the controller again. He howls and curls into a fetal ball, arms wrapped protectively but uselessly over his head. Turner saunters over and kicks him twice in the lower back. He is panting heavily, and even though he realizes this is unnecessary, he cannot stop.

“Let’s try this again. Lick. My. Boots.”

Desperate to avoid another correction, he drags himself onto his hands and knees and places his mouth near Greco’s black boot. He sticks out his tongue and begins to lick. The leather tastes like shoe polish and earth.

Without warning, the cane lashes against his welts, causing him to jerk forward so that his nose is smashed into Greco’s ankle. “Get that pretty ass _up_, Seventeen!” yells Turner, and Seventeen straightens his knees and hips and tilts his back so that his head and shoulders remain low near the ground, and his arse is high. Turner laughs and slaps his burning cheeks twice, once on each side.

When he finishes licking both of Greco’s boots, he does the same for the other men. His tongue is desiccated and his mouth feels like it, too, is made of leather. At last, Greco says, “You will beg like this before every meal. Now Stand.”

Back on his feet, he feels a spark of hope as Hicks grabs a blood bag off the shelf and walks over to him. He watches as Hicks pierces the bag with the tip of a pocket knife, then inserts a thin plastic straw that he has been carrying in his shirt pocket.

He can’t look away, even when Greco stands very close on his other side and begins to talk. “Here’s the deal. My boy here is going to put the straw in your mouth, and you get to eat up. But if you make that ugly face, or if you make a sound, or if you move a fucking muscle, Hicks is going to pour all that lovely red stuff right down the drain.”

He stands absolutely still, hoping Greco gets the message: I’ll be good, I’ll be a fucking statue, just give me the sodding blood. Maybe Greco does, because a moment later he nods, and then Hicks is slipping the straw into his mouth. “Drink, then,” Hicks says impatiently, and he takes a long, luxurious draw. He’s not surprised that it’s not very good blood—probably came from the butcher, and not too recently—but is grateful to have received any at all.

When Greco places his huge, rough palm on his arse, he almost flinches, but not quite. Moua and Turner move closer, and now all four men are crowding right up against him, breathing on him, bathing him in the scent of sweat and laundry detergent and aftershave, surrounding him with their heat.

Hicks is still holding the bag, but that leaves seven hands free. And those hands are all over him. Squeezing his arse, rubbing up and down the inside of his thighs, pinching his nipples, cradling his balls, and, inevitably, stroking his cock. He strains to remain immobile.

Fingers ghost down his back and then the nails dig in, leaving four stinging lines from his shoulder blade to his waist. Then the hand is tickling lightly along his lower back, pressing gently just where the swell of his cheeks begins. A finger dips into his crack, caressing up and down, then farther down, then teasing around his hole and barely pressing in.

His sipping becomes a bit unsteady but does not stop.

The hand on his cock is fondling it tenderly, lightly moving around the base, squeezing just as a bit as it moves towards the tip. Although he is willing himself not to respond, he feels his flesh becoming stiff and the hand grips him a little more firmly, moving a little more quickly.

Behind him, the finger is thrusting slightly into him, pulling out to trace along the edge of his pucker and across his perineum, plunging back in.

Another finger is tracing the vein on the underside of his now fully erect cock, pressing lightly in with a fingernail, a sharp little pressure from his balls to where his foreskin has retracted. The finger rubs into the slit on the engorged glans, gathering up the pre-come that has begun to seep out, swirling it gently around and around.

He’s barely noticed that the blood bag is empty, but Hicks pulls the straw out of his mouth, which has gone slack, and walks away. He returns a moment later and sticks the straw back into his mouth, saying, “Second course, little vampire.” Seventeen resumes his slow meal, and the hands never stop.

The finger is now entering him fully. It crooks just so, and he feels a flash of pleasure as it brushes against his prostate.

Other fingers are circling both his nipples, passing over the sensitive, hardened nubs.

His cock is held quite tightly now. The stroking has sped up and his foreskin is pulled up and down. Nearly a steady stream of fluid is dripping out. His balls are tugged and rolled and patted.

He is nearly overcome with the stimulation that is flooding his body. He fights to keep legs solid beneath him and he chokes back a moan.

A second finger has joined the first inside him, roughened skin dragging against his smooth inner walls, bringing him that good little spark with nearly every stroke.

It is taking every ounce of his will not to swing his hips into that slippery and calloused palm. His eyes are wide open, staring blankly at the draining plastic bag, but he does not see it.

Faster, faster goes the hand on his shaft, friction and heat and

The fingers are fucking him furiously now, stretching and burning and it hurts just fine and

Hands gripping the globes of his arse, massaging and spreading and

Firm strokes on the inside of his thighs, smoothing the tense muscles and

Spiky little tingles running through his nipples, fingertips chasing them around and around and

Fullness in his stomach and his balls and his cock and

A burst of cold fire from his balls through his cock and into his brain and he howls and his tepid semen spurts onto the enveloping hand and onto the floor in front of him and his knees buckle and he collapses to the floor.

Moua is bending down next to him, his hand extended in front of him. “Clean this mess up, Seventeen.” Dazedly, he licks it off, discovering that his own spend tastes different from the humans’, coppery and a little sour, like a penny dipped in lime juice. Moua stands and wipes his hand on his trousers.

Turner taps his foot on the floor, where small white splatters have collected. “This, too, shithead.” He glances up at Greco, who raises his eyebrows and displays the gray box meaningfully at him, and he crawls the few feet over to Turner and laps the floor clean with his tongue.

“Good little vampire,” chuckles Greco.

Hicks throws the second blood bag, which is now empty as well, onto a shelf and grabs the leash off of its hook. He walks back to where Seventeen huddles on the floor, trembling slightly, and snaps it onto his collar. Then he hands the end of it to Greco.

“Heel!” Greco says, and crawling on hands and knees, Seventeen follows him out into the hallway. The others file out behind them.

When they reach the end of the corridor, Seventeen only blinks dully as Moua removes the leash and buckles the ball gag back into place, and Turner and Hicks rebind his wrists and elbows behind him. Greco puts his boot on his rump and pushes him to the edge of the hole, then with a solid kick, shoves him in. He lands with a bone-jarring thud and is glad for the peace and numbing darkness of his cell.

He is asleep almost before the door has slammed shut.

 

His existence has settled into a routine of sorts.

He spends trackless hours hunched in his hole, which now reeks from the dirt and body fluids he has carried in on his body. He shuffles around listlessly, trying to get a little less uncomfortable, trying to stop the endless round of insoluble questions from whirling around in his head. He sleeps and does not remember his dreams.

Then the door screeches open and he is led, crawling, to the training room.

Moua and Greco had begun wrinkling their noses in distaste at his filthy body and at the stink that emanated from his skin, so each session now begins with the men shackling his wrists to the chains that hang from the ceiling. They shave his scalp smooth again, and then his groin. Then they turn the hose on him, drenching him with jets of icy water.

They are always careful to wash the cleft of his arse very well. Then one day when Turner has the hose, he actually inserts the tip of the hose into his body and turns on the spray. He jerks and shakes as he fills himself being filled.

He is already whimpering in discomfort when Turner turns the water off and just stands there, holding the tip of the hose firmly inside of him. The frigid liquid visibly distends his thin abdomen and he moans quietly as his belly begins to cramp painfully. The men chat with each other about sports and girlfriends and bosses and what they plan for their days off. He nearly sobs in relief when the hose is finally removed and the fluid rushes out of him and down the drain.

The men find this amusing enough that now they repeat the treatment nearly every time, and the sick ache of cold water roiling in his bowels never becomes any more tolerable.

After he is released from the shackles, the soldiers drill him endlessly in the lessons he has learned. He is taught new commands as well: Stay, Squat (balls of his feet on the floor, legs bent deeply, back straight, hands clasped behind him), Wall (front of his body pressed flat against the wall, legs spread, hands behind his head), Bend (legs straight and spread, arse up, palms flat on the floor), Bow ( knees on the floor, hands behind his back, back bowed and forehead touching the ground). Squat is the hardest of these for him to master—the men keep him in position as his thigh muscles spasm and eventually he topples onto his arse. This earns him a lash of the cane if Greco is in a good mood, a jolt from the gray box if he is not.

He practices the commands for grueling hours, scrambling to shift from one position to another before he is punished. He soon finds himself following each barked order instantly and mindlessly. In fact, he does best if he forces himself not to think, just to obey.

When Greco is satisfied that he will abide perfectly with every order, a new twist is added. Now one or two of the men periodically move in close to him as he moves through the poses or freezes in a Stay. They intrude on his body with slaps and kicks and gropes and pinches and punches. He struggles to ignore them, but frequently gets knocked out of position or, worse yet, reacts with a snarl or a growl. This results in instant agony in his head.

One day as he is in Bend position, Turner comes up behind him and, without warning, thrusts the end of the rattan cane deeply into his exposed sphincter. Seventeen whirls around, roaring, fangs lengthening. Turner stumbles back quickly, but the vampire has already collapsed into a screaming, convulsing heap on the floor. The chip in his head has fired automatically and then Greco pushes the button on the controller repeatedly until Seventeen blacks out.

He awakens to find himself hanging upside down by the ankles. His arms are cuffed behind him and wrenched so far behind his shoulder blades that the joints are nearly dislocated; a chain tethers the cuffs to a bolt in the floor and keeps him from moving his wrists. The ball gag has been fastened back into his mouth and the cane is inserted far enough into his rectum that he feels like he has been impaled.

Turner is standing close in front of him, frowning, while the other men cluster behind him. He is holding a heavy black flogger in one hand. As soon as Turner sees his eyes flutter open, he pulls back his other arm and lands a hard punch directly into Seventeen’s testicles. Seventeen lets out a sort of strangled shriek and the men watch as he swings slightly back and forth, grunting each time his body pulls away from his over-stretched arms.

“You have been a very bad little vampire,” Moua laughs.

Turner begins swinging the flogger, bringing the leather straps down hard on his chest and belly and thighs, making a complex map of bloody stripes and ridges. Grinning evilly, the man takes particular delight in whipping his dangling cock and balls, which are soon swollen and striped in red. He even lands blows across his face, and the vampire jerks and screams in response to the stinging pain in one eye.

Then Turner moves around to his other side. He paints his back and legs and buttocks in bruises and deep cuts. By the time he stops, the man is panting hard and bathed in sweat. Seventeen looks blearily at him through the eye that isn’t swollen shut, his entire body enveloped in a haze of throbbing hurt.

“Teach you a lesson, piece of shit!” Turner gasps and throws the flogger onto the floor.

Moua grabs something off of a shelf and steps forward. Seventeen is suddenly writhing in panic as a thick rubber hood is pulled tightly over his head. The hood has no openings, so not only is he completely blinded and his hearing muffled, but he cannot draw in any air. And even if doesn’t need the oxygen, his lungs reflexively struggle to inflate.

The cane is abruptly shoved more deeply inside him. There is the horrible feeling of something within him _ripping_.

Then, nothing.

[Part 3b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/2557.html#cutid1)  
 

 

 


	4. Chapter 3b: Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 3b: Training** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 3b: Training  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! Beautiful banner by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) .

LJ's making me post this chapter in two sections because it's pretty long.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
---  
  
He is still hanging. He doesn’t know how long. Sometimes he can’t stop himself from writhing in his bonds, even knowing it will only hurt his shoulders. Sometimes he is asleep. Mostly, he waits.

 

The door slams open—he can barely hear it through the heavy latex—and a moment later he is crashing headfirst to the floor, his upper limbs wrenched agonizingly and the cane digging into him at a new and excruciating angle. Then the cane is yanked out and he feels a torrent of tepid blood gush from between his legs. The hood is peeled off of him. He pulls a long and shaky breath in through his nose, blows it out, and blinks warily up at Greco.

“Lesson learned, Seventeen?”

He nods.

Greco glances behind him. “Hicks, bring me that blood.”

“But, dude, it didn’t earn it!”

“But, _dude_,” Greco mocks, “if it doesn’t feed, it won’t heal, and we won’t be able to work it. The Prof will have our balls if we’re not ready on time.”

Hicks sighs and carries the bag over. Greco kneels over Seventeen’s prone body and brusquely unbuckles the gag. He rips open the top of the bag and begins pouring it into the vampire’s mouth. Seventeen chokes and sputters, but, desperate for nourishment, manages to swallow most of it. Greco tosses the bag off to the side and, heedless of the gore running down Seventeen’s cheeks and chin, pushes the gag back in his mouth.

His wrists are freed and the leash attached to his collar. Greco pulls him into the hallway. Still on his hands and knees and wincing with every movement, he slowly follows the soldier back to the cell. The others follow, Hicks swearing quietly at the thin trail of blood the vampire leaves in its wake.

For hours after, Seventeen lies curled up in his hole, feeling the aches recede as his body gradually repairs itself. One question echoes through his head. Ready on time for _what_?

 

Seventeen _has_ learned his lesson. Soon he can withstand any of the men’s assaults without flinching or breaking from proper position. The next time Turner penetrates him with an object, this time the long metal handle of a cat o’ nine tails, he remains silent and immobile on his back, face smooth and neutral, carefully burying his shame and rage deep inside.

When Moua pulls a wooden stake out of his trousers pocket one day as he is in Stand and waves it in front of his face, he does not react. Moua presses the pointed end of it right over his silent heart. A bead of blood forms and begins to drip down his chest. Inside his head, Seventeen is chanting, “Yes, please, please, please…” but he doubts that the humans have gone to all this trouble training him just to give him the mercy of final death. So he is unsurprised when Moua grins and pulls the stake away. The man tells him “Bend!” and he is also unsurprised when Moua pokes the stake into his puckered hole and slowly draws it in and out, leaving uncomfortable little splinters stuck in him. He doesn’t twitch a muscle. He finds himself having to suppress an angry little sneer, though, as he thinks that fucking a vampire with a stake is rather clichéd.

 

He is kneeling motionless, ignoring his protesting knees. The soldiers are sitting against a wall, idly chatting about something or other. Their voices buzz around him, meaningless; he has switched off his mind and is nearly floating in a blank haze.

Then the door crashes open. Fortunately, the men are too busy scrambling to their feet to notice that he jerks in surprise.

Professor Walsh strides in accompanied by a small retinue in white. Although she is not a large woman, she looks imposing in her practical haircut and her understated makeup. She has two pens in her chest pocket. “Boys, is it break time?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The other three men look nervously at Greco.

“No, no, Professor. We’ve just been practicing a long Kneel.” Seventeen can practically feel Walsh’s stare turn to him, but his head is docilely bowed.

“Yes, so it would appear,” she responds. “Show me how well you’ve been training the other commands.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Greco begins rapidly snapping out orders, which Seventeen follows dutifully and without error. When he is able to look in the Professor’s direction, he sees her watching intently, a slight frown on her face, as the members of her entourage take notes. Finally, she holds up a hand. “All right, all right. Enough.”

Seventeen is in the Squat position, perfectly still. He realizes he can smell her perfume. It’s nice.

“It is going through the exercises well enough, but can it deal adequately with distractions?

“Yes, ma’am,” Greco repeats.

“Well, let’s see,” she says impatiently.

Greco barks out commands again, but this time the other men move in and start hitting and petting and poking him. Hicks gives him a sharp elbow jab in the kidney. He doesn’t respond. Turner punches him savagely in the stomach, but his only reaction is a soft whoosh of air through his nose.

The smell of perfume becomes stronger, and although his eyes are downcast and he cannot see her, he realizes that Walsh is standing next to him. Her soft hand reaches out and begins gently stroking his chest, then his shoulder; it dips down to brush against his flank, then rises again to give him a stinging slap to the cheek. His head rocks slightly from the impact.

She stares at him for a moment and then marches to the door.

“It tightened its jaw just now. Boys, you’ll have to work it harder. We don’t have much time left, and we still have the rest of the preparation to complete. I don’t want to be disappointed in front of our guest.” Then she stomps out the door, her minions scurrying behind her.

 

The men intensify the training sessions, shouting out the commands faster, punishing for mistakes more quickly. He thinks the sessions are lasting longer, too. Even the soldiers look tired when they end.

Finally, though, each time the gag or muzzle is removed from his mouth, and he is told to beg. And although he is still humiliated, he licks their boots almost eagerly, hoping the taste of dusty leather will soon be washed away by the taste of blood.

But now the men want him to do more than beg for his supper. He must also take their cocks into his mouth and arse, willingly, swallowing their bitter come and passively enduring the pounding against his throat and in his rectum. They like to call him names while they do this—bitch, slut, pussy, cunt—and he tries to tune it out, tune it all out, until they are done. But that is impossible, because they want him to wiggle his arse and say things like, “Please fuck me, Master,” and “Harder please, Master.”

When they are done using him, he is always made to Stand perfectly unmoving while he is fed. They tease him then, fondling and stroking. Much to his shame, he now becomes erect as soon as it becomes clear the feeding will begin, even before they have touched him. They laugh at his leaking, needy cock and rarely let him come. Instead, he is usually led crawling back to his hole, organ throbbing between his legs and smearing precome onto his belly. With his hands bound behind him he cannot wank himself, and his attempts to rub off against the rough interior of the cell only result in painful abrasions.

His constantly frustrated state makes it difficult for him not to thrust into the taunting hands as he feeds, not to let out little mewls of desperation when the hands pull away from him just as he teeters on the edge of orgasm. But if he does budge or make a sound, the blood is instantly taken away from him, and he is forced to watch it being emptied into the drain.

When, for the third session in a row, he sees the red fluid seeping slowly into the hole in the floor, he has to choke back sobs of anger and disappointment. In his cell a short time later, his old friend hunger, never far away anyway, settles back in his stomach. It claws at his insides like a rabid beast and he moans and cries into the metal ball.

During the next session, his Stand is perfect while he is fed. He does not twitch a muscle, even when Greco moves up behind him and plunges his long, thick cock into Seventeen’s already battered hole.

 

One day (or maybe night; it’s impossible to tell) five more men in fatigues enter the room as he is going through his drills. Greco and the others seem to expect them. The training room is crowded now, and the vampire can scent the excitement rolling off the soldiers.

Greco turns to a short, thin man with dark skin and a closely-cropped skull. “Hey, Ramirez. Wanna give it a try?”

Ramirez smiles wolfishly, and now he is the one calling out orders while the others watch closely. Soon, all nine men are taking turns attempting to provoke Seventeen into disobedience, but none are successful. They enjoy trying, though.

Eventually they begin unfastening their trousers, and, after several minutes of writhing and wriggling like a whore and pleading to be allowed to suck their big dicks, Seventeen is made to let them all employ his body in whatever ways they wish.

By the time the straw is placed in his mouth and he takes his first sip of rancid blood, he is laboring greatly to keep from collapsing from pain and fatigue. The new men snicker and hoot at his rampant cock and his desperate efforts to ignore the groping hands.

When he has finished feeding, Ramirez claps Greco on the back and says, “Good job, man. Mind if I try something?”

“It’s all yours, dude.”

Ramirez tells one of his men to go fetch him a seat. The man returns a few minutes later with an armless wooden chair. Ramirez sprawls onto it, legs splayed. “Vampire, Floor.”

Seventeen drops gracefully onto all fours.

“C’mere, vampire.”

He crawls to Ramirez, stopping a few inches away.

“Kneel.”

He rises up and Ramirez grabs the ring on his collar. Ramirez throws his other hand around the vampire’s waist and maneuvers him so that he is lying face-down over his lap. Ramirez takes care that Seventeen’s hard-on is hanging between the man’s knees.

Ramirez places his palm on Seventeen’s bum and begins kneading and rubbing. Then he lifts his hand and gives a resounding smack to his left cheek. Seventeen flinches a tiny bit, and Ramirez slaps his other cheek. The sound of flesh on flesh echoes in the small room.

Ramirez begins a quick volley of strikes, each hard enough to rock Seventeen slightly forward on his lap. The vampire’s arse has turned a rosy pink, and Ramirez takes a moment to massage and pinch it. “I gotta say, Greco, your monster has a really pretty butt, especially when it gets some color to it.”

The men snicker appreciatively, and Ramirez resumes spanking. He alternates unpredictably between gentle taps and hard blows, and it’s really starting to hurt. Worse than the pain, though, is the fact that his erection hasn’t waned at all. His cock is purple and leaking freely. Seventeen finds himself leaning back into the man’s swatting hand, trying unsuccessfully to press his crotch into his leg, desperate for friction. Of course, the men take notice of this and laugh. One of them calls him a greedy little slut.

Ramirez stops the beating for a moment and presses Seventeen’s sore cheeks together, then pulls them apart. He takes his hand off one cheek and presses his finger into the vampire’s abused hole, moving it in and out. He crooks it just right to brush against the prostate and Seventeen groans and jerks backward, causing even more laughter.

The man pulls out and starts slapping again, hard and fast.

Seventeen has begun crying, tears of humiliation and pain and rage tracking down his face and wrenching sobs spilling from his throat. And he can’t fucking stop, and he’s still arching and squirming in Ramirez’s lap.

Seventeen’s arse is cherry-red now, and hot.

Ramirez varies rapidly between spanking and pinching and rubbing and finger-fucking. Seventeen is still crying and snot is running from his nose and he feels his bollocks hanging beneath him, heavy and full, and his cock is twitching and jerking and the men are laughing and Ramirez lands a particularly heavy whack and he bellows and his orgasm rips though him.

He stays draped over Ramirez’s lap, chest heaving, head hanging in shame and exhaustion. Ramirez gives him a few playful pats and then dumps him on the floor.

“Clean up your mess, Seventeen,” Greco says.

After the men watch him lick the floor, Ramirez shakes Greco’s hand. “Like I said, good job, man. Made yourself a pretty little pet. The old bitch might even crack a smile.” He leaves, taking his men with him.

Greco and the others seem pleased. Moua slaps Seventeen cheerfully on his burning arse. “Good little vampire,” he grins.

 

There is a palpable tension among the men during the next session. Greco shouts out commands with particular force, and the men keep bickering irritably among themselves. So even the vampire isn’t particularly surprised when the door bursts open and Walsh and company come marching in.

The scientists watch impassively as he moves compliantly through the commands. His responses to each order are immediate, his form is perfect, and he does not react in the least to any distractions. When Walsh steps up to him and begins examining him like a beast at auction—removing his gag and poking her fingers into his mouth, squeezing his biceps, lifting his eyelids, handling his genitals—he submits meekly. Deep inside, a part of him is seething, imagining the savage joy he would take in ripping out the woman’s throat and gulping her hot blood. But he feels a twinge in his head at the mere thought of violence against his captor, and he remains Standing, subjugated and docile.

Walsh nods briskly and steps back. “Fine, very good,” she says. She watches as the men begin his feeding, and, although she grimaces a little at his inevitable erection, she seems pleased overall. The soldiers have relaxed considerably by now, and they chuckle quietly as they demonstrate his capacity to disregard their fondling hands. He hears a few of the scientists giggle when Turner inserts something bulky into his rectum—the handle of a plastic flashlight, he guesses from experience—but he remains motionless.

At last, he has finished the blood and the men look at Walsh expectantly. She nods again, and although she doesn’t smile, her features do soften a bit. “Very nice, boys. We’re ready for the rest of its preparation.” Her minions instantly scribble frantically on their clipboards, still writing as they follow her out the door.

As soon as the scientists are gone, the soldiers break into relieved smiles, whooping happily and amiably pummeling each others’ backs and shoulders. Seventeen is trying not to think about what the rest of his “preparation” will entail, nor what, exactly, he is being prepared for.

Moua comes over and rubs his hand across Seventeen’s bare head, as if he is caressing a favored pet. “Hey, dudes, I think our good little vampire deserves a reward, huh?”

“I got a nice big reward for it right here,” responds Turner, cupping his own crotch.

“Nah, Turner, that’s just a little tiny reward. I was thinking something bigger.”

Seventeen is left in his Stand while the men banter and joke behind him. They are moving things around; he hears bootsteps and the clatter of metal. Finally, Hicks grabs his shoulders, turns him around, and propels him toward a complex arrangement of chains and straps that now hangs from the ceiling. Rough hands seize him and, grunting, the men move and shackle him into position.

He is suspended on his back at about waist height. His legs are bent up at right angles to his torso and spread very far apart. Leather straps are around his knees and tethered tightly to the walls, preventing him from moving his knees together even slightly. His wrists are manacled above his body as well. A chain attaches the ring on his collar to a hook on the ceiling. A wide strap is wrapped just under his ribcage and attached to another hanging chain; he is grateful for this one, because it means his entire body weight isn’t borne by his wrists, ankles, and neck. His cock was still fully hard when Hicks bound it and his bollocks with a cord, and now his organ juts upward, engorged and nearly plum-colored. His head is free, so unless he tightens his muscles it hangs back, giving him an upside-down view of Moua.

Seventeen’s mouth is not gagged, and Greco tells him that he can beg and make all the noises he wants. “But one syllable of disrespect, shithead, and you will regret it. Got it?”

Seventeen nods, but when Greco still looks at him expectantly, whispers, “Yes, Master.”

Greco pats the vampire’s stomach. “Go ahead and move, too, if you want. Hicks likes to watch you wiggle.” The others snort in laughter.

Someone pushes on his bum so that he sways back and forth a little, and then a hand presses into his inner thigh, stilling him. He lifts his head up and sees that Turner is leering at him from between his legs. The man pinches his other thigh hard with his other hand and then grabs Seventeen’s swollen testicles and gives them a squeeze and a harsh twist. Seventeen yelps.

Turner removes his hand from his balls and slowly, deliberately, slips his index finger into the vampire’s tightened sphincter. He slides it in and out a few times and then adds his middle finger. Seventeen is clenching his jaw. Now the third finger goes in, and then the fourth. Seventeen is whimpering now, all the muscles in his body rigid. Turner moves his fingers in and out, then side to side, twists them a bit. Both he and the vampire begin panting heavily, but only Seventeen is making little whistling noises of pain with every exhalation.

Moua has unzipped his fly and pulled out his own cock, which he presses against Seventeen’s scalp. He pushes a hand down onto Seventeen’s face, forcing his head backward. He rubs his cock on Seventeen’s cheeks and forehead and teases just the head into his mouth. He pulls out. “Lick it,” he says, and, helplessly, Seventeen does.

Meanwhile, Hicks is stroking Seventeen’s distended and slippery shaft, firm warm strokes from the bound base to the tip.

One more twist and then Turner’s entire fist is embedded inside the vampire’s body. He lets out a loud groan as he feels his tender insides tearing once again, but then his pain ebbs a bit as the hand becomes lubricated with his blood. Turner pushes inward, grunting.

Hicks begins wanking him faster and harder, then pauses a moment to remove the leather that has been lashed so tightly around his genitals.

Moua bends down and whispers in his ear, “Gonna let you come, little vampire.” Then straightens and resumes rubbing his wet cock across his face.

Seventeen can’t help himself. At these words, he begins bucking his hips, nearly heedless of Turner, who is buried in him up to his heavily muscled forearm. The movements of Turner’s fist and his own hips are causing him to swing back and forth, knocking his lips and cheeks harder against Moua.

Hicks removes his hand and Seventeen continues humping the air. He frantically moans, “Please, please, please, please....” and even he is not sure what he’s begging for. Turner is pistoning his arm and Hicks laughs and seizes his cock again and Seventeen arches his back and shudders and wails and comes. His semen splatters across his chest. A moment later, Moua comes, too, spurting warmly into Seventeen’s face.

Moua uses his hand to rub the come into his skin, pushing his sticky fingers past swollen lips and into the vampire’s gasping mouth. Then Turner yanks his arm free, and it feels to Seventeen like he has taken most of his lower intestines with him. But when he raises his head somewhat reluctantly to survey the damage, he sees that his hole is gaping, inflamed, and bloody, but his innards seem to be reasonably intact.

Greco steps into his line of view. “Don’t you appreciate your reward, shithead?”

Seventeen murmurs, “Thank you, Master.”

Weary and despairing, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

 

He is surprised at his body’s ability to repair itself quickly, so long as he is fed adequately. By the time he is hauled out of the cell again, he finds he can crawl without bolts of agony shooting from his rectum and through his abdomen. In fact, he feels quite fit as the men lead him through his usual exercises, although he worries when they stop much sooner than normal, and wonders why the routine seems to have shifted. He is washed and shaved after the drills instead of before. Hicks seeming to take particular care with the straight razor. His anxiety begins in earnest when he is given his blood while he still shackled from the cleaning, without first having to beg or be fucked, and without being molested while he drinks. He becomes erect anyway, his cock having been trained as well as the rest of him.

The men unchain him, and Greco snaps his leash back onto his collar and leads him out the door. Uneasy as he is about what’s about to happen to him, he enjoys the rare privilege of being able to walk somewhere instead of being dragged around on his sodding hands and knees. His hard-on is still bouncing uncomfortably between his legs when they arrive at the examination room. He fights the urge to pull back, knowing it won’t do him any good anyway, but he can’t stifle the shiver of fear that runs down his spine as they enter.

The men put the ball gag back in his mouth, strap him onto the exam table in the usual immobile and vulnerable position, and then leave. He stares up at the fluorescent lights for a long time, daydreaming about warmth and softness and safety. He has no memory of experiencing any of these things, and so has no specific images to play with in his mind, but he finds even the abstract concepts a little comforting.

Untouched, his cock slowly deflates, but his bollocks remain tight and sore.

He can hear the lights humming softly.

The door bangs open and scientists traipse in. They are led, as always, by Professor Walsh. She waits impatiently while her minions gather their instruments and equipment. Then she claps her hands once. “Get to it, people!”

Seventeen suspects that it’s Criswell who has taken his usual spot between his legs. He can feel the man’s chubby hands pushing on his thighs and then poking at his genitals. He tenses when he smells surgical spirits and feels cold dampness being wiped over his perineum, across his pucker, and slightly up the crack of his cheeks. He lets out a muffled yelp when there’s a sudden sharp pain in the area beneath his scrotum. Something is wedged deep between his buttocks, forcing them apart, and then he cries out again at a second piercing sensation in the sensitive bit on the other side of his anus. There’s an odd tugging sensation in both spots, and he realizes that something has been inserted into his skin. There’s another tug, as if Criswell is testing to make sure the things are secure.

There are rustling and shuffling noises, but of course he can’t see anything except the ceiling and, if he rolls his eyes as far to the right as he can, a little of the white shoulder of a lab coat.

He tenses again when something warm and slippery slides into his hole, and he realizes that it’s Criswell’s finger, but the man has apparently lubricated it. Which is more than the soldiers have ever bothered to do, he thinks. A second finger slips in as well, and the man scissors them gently, stretching the tight opening. Then the fingers pull out, but they are replaced in a moment by something harder. It feels slightly narrower than any of the cocks he’s had inside him, and certainly not as long. Criswell messes about with something between his legs for a short while longer, than steps away. “Okay, Professor Walsh, the plug is secure,” he says in his pleasant baritone.

Seventeen can hear Walsh’s footsteps, and then her hand is on his knee. She runs delicate fingers over the newly-pierced areas. He feels her pulling on the thing that has been inserted in him—the _plug_?—but it does not come out.

More footsteps, and now Walsh is standing over him, gray box in her hand. He hears himself whining and can’t seem to stop.

“Seventeen, bear down like you’re defecating and try to expel the plug.”

He hasn’t defecated since he was human, and fuck knows how long ago that was, but he reckons he can manage. He pushes as hard as he is able, but something is clearly keeping the plug from moving. He blows through his nose and widens his eyes at Walsh, trying to let her understand that he is being compliant.

She pushes the button.

When the pain recedes enough for him to understand her, she is waving the fucking box at him again. “Try again, Seventeen.”

And he does, but to no avail. He blinks at her desperately and whines some more. She looks thoughtful for a second, and then he sighs with relief when the box disappears into her pocket.

“All right,” she says. “That will do.”

He can’t imagine why they feel the need to plug a vampire’s arsehole, and, truthfully, he doesn’t want to imagine why. And in any case his speculation is interrupted when he feels more surgical spirits being wiped on, this time onto the shaft of his penis.

Criswell is handling him, prodding his cock this way and that, as if he can’t decide which way looks best. Then all of Seventeen’s worst fears are realized when he feels the slice of a sharp blade cutting lengthwise along his frenulum.

It has been a long time since his face has changed, and if he were rational he would have realized that transforming without permission would probably get him punished, but he is not thinking at all right now, just reacting. His bones shift and become heavier, his senses sharpen, and a deep growl rumbles in his chest. He pulls with all his strength at the chains and straps holding him down, and for a brilliant moment, he almost feels like he can wrench free—but he can’t. Of course the fetters are vampire-proof. He can only snarl and twitch impotently, and isn’t _that_ the proper adverb to use when someone is busy carving up your todger?

There is a tortured moment when he feels something actually being pushed _into_ the center of his cock via the slit that Criswell cut and he growls again. Nobody pays any attention.

Walsh says, “Just tape it up. It’s well fed and will heal on its own by morning.” There’s some more jostling and he can feel a plaster being applied, and then Criswell lets go of his cock and he nearly faints with relief. His face melts back to normal.

He is so relieved, in fact, that he barely notices that the humans have begun messing about with his hands. The cuffs around his wrists are tight enough that his hands are pinned palms upward. Now his fingers are being taped down—heavy-grade tape, by the feel of it—so that he cannot curl his fingers inward. Someone slices into the center of each of his palms, but he barely twitches at that. Again, he can feel something being inserted into the meat of his hand, and then more plasters are stuck on.

The tape on his right fingers is removed and then, to his surprise, so are the chains and straps that anchor his right hand and arm. Walsh peers down at him. “Seventeen, touch your penis.”

He simply stares at her in confusion. He has never once been allowed to touch himself. Now do they want to watch him wank? Seems more like the soldier boys’ kind of thing, not the scientists’.

Walsh sighs and rolls her eyes. “I said, touch your penis!” She glances meaningfully toward the bulge in her pocket. Warily, he raises his arm and reaches between his legs. He grasps the bandaged organ gingerly, and a blaze of pure agony shoots through his groin, in his hand, and up his arm. He shrieks into the gag and jerks his hand away.

Walsh nods and his arm is resecured. Then the left one is released.

“Now with this hand,” she tells him.

He doesn’t move. He is breathing heavily through his nose and staring at the woman imploringly.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she snaps. “Benson, Avila, you do it.”

His wrist and arm are gripped by four hands. He knows he is stronger than humans, but in his prone and confined position he has little leverage, and even a slight tug against the guiding hands results in a sharp twinge from the chip in his head. Benson and Avila direct his arm over and down, and then slap his hand into his crotch. The moment he touches his cock, he is again engulfed in convulsive pain. His eyes roll back in his head and frothy spit dribbles from the corners of his mouth.

 His left arm is refettered.

“The sensors appear to be working,” Walsh says drily. She disappears from his sight, starts quietly ordering people about somewhere else in the room. Gradually, his breathing evens out and his muscles relax.

A hand brushes softly against his cheek and he rolls his eyes to the left. A tall, bony woman is standing there, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, mousy hair pulled back into a messy bun. She smiles at him. It’s a nice smile that makes her almost pretty. Her eyes are sad, though. She strokes him again, just the edges of her fingertips running along his cheekbone. “It’s okay,” she whispers, so quietly that the other humans likely don’t hear her. “It’s almost over.” She pets him one more time and then moves away.

Now Walsh has returned and is frowning down at him. “Seventeen, are you aware of the rule about that hideous face?”

He wants to say, of course he’s aware, but he thought he was about to get fucking castrated. And he wants to throw himself at her feet and plead with her, please, please, no more, please. But he can’t even nod; he just moans pitifully.

Walsh is not moved to forgiveness. “Let me remind you,” she says, and activates the controller. And then she does it again. And again.

 

He wakes up in the dark, crammed into his stinking cell. His skull  and his hands and his groin are throbbing. He discovers that it is even more difficult to find a satisfactory position with the plug stretching him and pressing uncomfortably inside him. He shifts around restlessly.

He tries to picture attacking the scientists and the soldiers, ripping into their soft bodies and wrenching their necks as they scream. But his mind shies away from this nervously. Instead he sees himself naked and chained, prostrating himself meekly—_willingly_—at their feet.

And then he thinks of the tall scientist, the one who had shown him that bit of kindness. He imagines the feel of her delicate touch on his skin. Tears slip from his eyes. He rocks his body and he keens, and he wonders if a vampire can expire from hopelessness.

 

[Chapter 4a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/2613.html#cutid1)


	5. Chapter 4a: Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 4a: Fighting** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 4a: Fighting  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British!

Wonderful, not-worksafe illustration by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  after the cut!

*****This chapter is posted in two parts*****

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

    [](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)   
His universe has four parts: the cell, the corridor, the examination room, and the training room. He likes the corridor best, because bad things rarely happen to him there. But he spends very little time there, usually just a few minutes as he passes from one part of his universe to another.

Not long after he is pierced and plugged, his universe expands.

The soldiers come for him as usual, but this time he is permitted to walk at the end of his leash. When they don’t stop at the training room, he tries to slow his steps, dreading the exam room. Greco drags him along anyway, but then he is shocked when they pass right by the exam room as well. They continue down the hallway a short way, then go through a set of double doors. This puts them in a cramped, featureless vestibule. When the doors have shut and locked behind them, Greco opens another pair of doors, and they enter an entirely different hallway.

Well, it’s not entirely different. This one, too, is lit by blinking fluorescent fixtures and has the ubiquitous brown floor tiles. Instead of green metal doors, however, this one is lined by large, thick windows. Through each of the windows he can see a small room, completely tiled in white. And in each of the rooms is a demon.

He cranes his neck from side to side as they walk down the hallway. There are creatures of all shapes and sizes. His brain helpfully supplies him with the names of many of them, but there are some that he does not recognize at all.

Most of them glare at him and the soldiers as they pass by. A few of them throw themselves towards the windows but then seem to recoil as if from a painful shock. Some of the demons merely huddle miserably in the corners. The hallway reeks of fear and anger and the myriad personal odors of the monsters they pass. There are many noises here, too—screams and growls and cries of all descriptions—but they are heavily muffled by the glass, and any words are unintelligible.

He is surprised at first when he sees a few humans in the rooms. But then one of these people snarls and her face morphs into bumps and fangs, and he realizes with a start that these are vampires like him. Well, not like him, perhaps. They are obviously captives as well, but he wonders why they have been given relatively comfortable cells, while he has been consigned to a tiny, noisome hole in the ground. None of them are chained or collared or gagged. They even wear clothing, a luxury that has never, within his memory, been afforded him.

There _are_ more humans here as well—people in green fatigues and white lab coats, two gray-haired men in suits and ties, even a grouchy-looking middle-aged woman in a blue floral dress. They pass up and down the hallway, paying him and his keepers little mind.

Seventeen is led down this corridor for a long time. When they come to the end, they turn a corner, only to encounter yet more cells. There must be scores of prisoners here. After an entire conscious existence constrained by space and filled with routine, his mind is reeling from all of the _new_ and _different_.

At last, they pause before another set of doors. Greco swipes his card through the sensor and leads them inside.

 

The room is huge, larger by far than even the exam room. The ceiling soars high overhead. Walls, ceiling and floor are all dull grey concrete. Large, steel light fixtures hang down every few yards, bathing the entire room in white glare.

An enormous cage takes up the center of the room. It is perhaps 30 feet square, and three of its walls are made of very thick metal bars. Part of one of the room’s cement walls constitutes the fourth side. The roof of the cage is also barred about 20 feet above the floor. There are two small enclosures within the cage, set against the cage walls at opposite ends. The enclosure closer to where they stand has two sliding openings, one leading into the room at large and one leading into the cage. The other enclosure is up against the wall. A door in the wall leads directly into the enclosure, which also has a second aperture into the cage.

There are 10 foot wide bare areas to the left and right of the cage, and then there are several rows of wooden chairs, maybe two dozen on each side. Several soldiers are sprawled on these chairs and they hoot and clap as Seventeen and his handlers enter the room.

Greco leads him over to the cage. Hicks unbuckles the gag and pulls it out, tossing it off to the side. Then he and Moua unfasten his arms, and Greco takes off the leash. Seventeen stands uncertainly for a second and then Greco shoves him into the enclosure. Turner slides the door shut behind him and locks it.

He continues to stand as his handlers walk away and throw themselves onto chairs near the other soldiers. Nobody has given him any orders, so he stretches his cramped arms a bit while looking curiously around him. He notices with some trepidation that the floor of the cage is covered in many ominous, dark stains. The room smells like sweat and blood.

And speaking of blood, Hicks has just approached carrying a bag of it. The man tears open the top and thrusts it through the bars of the enclosure. Seventeen is unsure what to do: he has never been allowed to feed himself before. But Hicks says, “Eat up!” He takes the bag, then he downs the contents in big, greedy gulps. This is good blood; still animal, but much fresher than usual. As always when he drinks, his cock hardens, and this makes the men hoot and clap some more.

He passes the empty bag back to Hicks, who takes it and returns to his chair.

He is staring warily at the other enclosure when Greco calls out, “Hey, Seventeen!” He turns and looks at the man. “Show us your fang face.”

Obediently, he wills the shift to happen. “Anytime you’re in there, vampire, I want to see those pointy teeth. Got it?”

Seventeen nods, and Greco turns back to a conversation with the girl next to him. Because nobody seems to be paying him much attention, Seventeen takes the opportunity to cautiously explore. He runs his tongue over his razor-sharp teeth, tasting his own blood when he presses a little too hard. He lifts his hands to his forehead and inspects the bumps there; he feels a scar that bisects his left eyebrow and wonders how it got there. None of his other injuries seems to have left a permanent mark. He rubs his hand over his bare scalp. For some obscure reason, he wishes they would let his hair grow. Maybe he’d be a bit warmer, then.

He glances down sadly at his stiff cock. He tries, unsuccessfully, to will his hard-on away. He certainly has no intention of trying to touch himself there, now.

Suddenly, there is a loud clanking sound. The men sit up straight and turn their heads towards the other enclosure. The door in the wall opens, something is pushed inside, and then the door slams shut.

It’s a demon—an Onatalon, he somehow knows. It’s several inches shorter than Seventeen and very slightly built. Its skin is robin’s egg blue, and it has huge, wide eyes with crimson pupils. A thick pelt of indigo hair runs down its head and arms. It has a very long, sharp claw on each finger. It is wearing clothing, some sort of intricate arrangement of bands and sashes, all in oranges and yellows.

The creature takes one nervous look at Seventeen and lets out a shrill squeak. It whirls around and begins pounding and kicking on the door, which has no knob or handle. But the door remains closed.

One of the soldiers walks over to a wall and presses a large button there. With a loud groaning noise, the bars between the enclosures and the center of the cage swing upward. Seventeen remains where he is; the Onatalon presses its back frantically against the wall.

A few of the soldiers boo and hiss. The one who pushed the button grabs a couple of metal rods off the floor nearby. He tosses one to Greco and takes the other with him as he approaches the terrified demon. Greco saunters over to Seventeen’s enclosure. “You’re supposed to kill it, shithead,” he says. When Seventeen merely gapes at him in bewilderment, Greco sticks the metal rod through the bars and presses it against the vampire’s arse. A flash of pain hits Seventeen; he yelps and leaps out of the enclosure, and the door slams down behind him.

The other soldier must have poked the Onatalon with his cattle prod, too, because the demon squeals and the door to the other enclosure slams shut as well. The humans step back and the captives stare at each other.

Seventeen still hasn’t moved from just outside his enclosure. The demon has its back pressed in a corner, as far from the vampire as it can get. Seventeen is trying to process what Greco just said to him. He’s supposed to _kill_ this thing? How? Why? What will happen to him if he does? Won’t that sodding chip fire if he even tries?

The humans are getting restless with the lack of action. Some of them start yelling. One of them has a paper cup in his hand which he throws at the cage, splashing Seventeen with sticky liquid.

A jolt bursts through the vampire’s head and he bellows and falls to his knees, hands clutching his head. He turns and looks at Greco, who is still standing nearby. The man holds the controller high and snarls at him. “If you don’t get your sorry ass moving and waste that blue motherfucker, I’m going to just let my thumb rest on this button a good long time.”

Seventeen gets shakily back to his feet and slowly walks toward the Onatalon, which is still cowering in the corner. The demon squeals again and chitters something at him. He supposes it’s trying to tell him something, but he can’t understand a word. He steps closer, and now he’s barely more than an arm’s reach away.

Tentatively, he takes one more step. The demon’s face darkens. Suddenly, it swipes at him with one hand. Seventeen jerks backward and the Onatalon skitters to another corner. The soldiers shout. He looks down at his belly and sees four deep, crimson gashes. “Come _on_, Seventeen!” Moua shouts.

Seventeen paces over to the demon again. Again he advances slowly, and again it lashes out at him. This time its claws rake across his face, narrowly missing his left eye. Again, the audience hoots and yells.

But the vampire doesn’t hear them. He opens his mouth, throws back his head, and roars. The sound bounces off the room’s hard walls. The men quiet immediately.

The demon has run away again. Seventeen stalks towards it, every bit of rage and frustration he has felt bubbling hotly within him. His vision narrows until all he can see is the frightened demon pressed up against the bars, still chittering away at him, claws painted red with his blood. He feels the power surging through him and, at this moment, wants nothing else but to tear the Onatalon to bloody shreds.

He steps closer. The Onatalon twitches a muscle, and, as if in slow motion, he can see it just begin to raise its arm again. But he springs forward, pinning its skinny little arms to its sides with his hands. At the same time, he brings his head down and _bites_, tearing a huge chunk out of the demon’s throat.

The demon is writhing in his arms now, purple gore bubbling and spurting from its neck. He drops his hold on its arms and grabs either side of its head and _twists_.

Now he is holding its head in his hands, and its body has collapsed at his feet. The body is still twitching and gushing. The Onatalon’s red eyes look wide with surprise.

The humans are clapping and cheering. Seventeen doesn’t care.

He roars again. He heaves the head at the wall, where it makes a sickening thud. He kicks at the body, sending it sliding across the floor.

He stands there, panting heavily. Blood drips into his eyes and he wipes at it with his hand. He looks down at himself and sees that he is covered in gore, both his own and the little demon’s. The slashes are deep, but they don’t really hurt.

His cock is hard, either still or again, he doesn’t know. He does know that he feels fucking _good_, by far the best that he can remember. He thinks about how enjoyable it had felt to sink his fangs deep into flesh.  How delightful the Onatalon’s head felt as he ripped it off; the lovely crunching, rupturing sound it had made. He raises his dripping hand to his mouth and licks it, shuddering rapturously at the taste. Fresh, warm blood.

“Seventeen, come here.” Greco is calling him, and as wonderful as he feels right now, he doesn’t even consider disobeying. Greco motions him into the enclosure. “Get rid of that face,” Greco commands, and he does. The exterior door opens and Greco reaches in and grabs him, swiftly snapping the leash onto his collar.

“Heel.”

Seventeen drops to his knees and follows Greco a short distance, until they are a few feet from the soldiers in their chairs.

“Bow.”

He touches his forehead to the cool, gray floor.

Most of the soldiers get up and slowly leave the room, chatting animatedly among themselves as they go. Soon only his four usual handlers are left. He is still pressed to the ground.

“Kneel.”

He lifts his upper body and sees that Greco is now sitting directly in front of him. The man stares at him intensely.

“So you had some fun today, vampire. But here’s the thing. This was a warm-up. My baby sister could’ve beat that little blue fucker. You’re gonna be fighting things that are a whole lot bigger and tougher. And if you don’t move your ass as soon as the gate opens and start fucking attacking, those things are gonna dust you. Or better yet, we’ll just let them bang you up really good, then we’ll hand you over to Professor Walsh, and you’ll fucking _wish_ you were dusted. Got it?”

“Yes, Master,” he replies softly.

Greco stands and tugs on his leash. “Then let’s go.”

Hicks pulls his arms behind his back and slaps on the manacles. Moua stoops and grabs the discarded ball gag on their way out, but doesn’t put it on him.

As they retrace their steps down the corridor, this time the demons they pass are much quieter. They stare at his slashed and blood-spattered body and he stares back, wondering which one he’ll be fighting next.

 

They stop at the training room on the way back. As soon as they are inside, Hicks removes the manacles, then he and Moua attach the hanging wrist shackles. Moua turns the hose on him, and it stings when the water hits his wounds. Hicks and Greco shave him and then Hicks hoses him off again.

The shackles are released and Greco orders him to Stand. When Hicks pulls a bag of blood off the shelf, his hard-on, which had wilted under the cold spray, is resurrected. Hicks holds the bag and lets him drink through a straw. He’s disappointed; it had been nice to feed himself, for once.

When the bag is empty, Turner walks up behind him, fumbles for a moment in the crack of his arse, and then yanks out the plug. Seventeen can feel it swinging against his inner thigh, and he realizes it must be attached to the piercings with some kind of chain. Turner grabs his hip, and without any further preamble shoves his cock into the vampire. He thrusts rapidly, savagely. As he does, he whispers in Seventeen’s ear, “We may be letting you play with the other freaks, but never forget, you’re still our little bitch.”

 

Back in his hole in the ground, and the damage to his face and stomach and rectum has already healed. The plug, the gag, the arm bindings are all back in place and, as usual, his neglected cock is left hard and wanting. The taste of the Onatalon has been washed from his mouth, first by the blood he was fed in the training room, and then by the bitter, chlorine taste of the soldiers’ come.

He is still reliving the short fight in his head. Is this what all the preparation has been for? For what purpose—entertainment? Is vampire-baiting the newest spectator sport?

He finally gives up on these speculations. He may learn the answers eventually, and in any case it doesn’t matter. He’ll do what he’s told. At least this is something he liked doing. He takes a moment more to wonder about the chip, and why it didn’t fire. Maybe it only works with humans? He sighs and settles as comfortably as he can, and he falls asleep.

 

When the soldiers retrieve him the next time, he is happy to be allowed to walk again, delighted that they pass right by the training and exam rooms. He feels a little less overwhelmed as they go by the demons in the white cells, daring to glare at a few of them behind Greco’s back. By the time the reach the fighting room, he even has a tiny bit of bounce in his step.

There’s a slightly bigger crowd in the room this time—maybe a dozen humans in all. Two of them are wearing white lab coats. As soon as he is unfettered, he moves almost eagerly into the small enclosure, face changing immediately. He takes the plastic bag eagerly when Hicks hands it to him. He feels stronger with every swallow, and when the bag is empty, he licks the coppery taste from his lips and fangs.

The door opposite him bangs open, and a demon enters the enclosure. Chaos demon, wearing a white button-down shirt and beige trousers.

He’s instantly nearly overcome by blinding hatred for the creature, and he has no idea why. It’s certainly not very pretty, and the slime hanging from its antlers is downright disgusting, but that doesn’t explain why he abhors it so deeply. He hadn’t felt this way about the Onatalon, not even when he was wrenching off its head. He doesn’t just want to kill the Chaos demon; he want to tear it apart, piece by tiny piece.

He doesn’t have time to puzzle over this any longer because the barriers have swung open and his opponent is already advancing.

This is clearly going to be a bigger challenge than his first fight. The demon is taller and heavier than him, the hooves at the end of its limbs can surely pack a wallop, and that rack on its head is a formidable weapon in its own right.

Seventeen steps forward, too, and they circle each other, sizing each other up. He finds himself watching its every movement with a critical eye, noticing the clumsy way it swings its arms, the stiffness with which it carries its head, and he comprehends with a small start that he knows how to _fight_. Whatever he was before this place and whatever his existence was like, he surely was no stranger to combat. And although he cannot actually remember any of his battles, his brain has held onto the abstract concepts of engagement and strategy.

The demon suddenly takes a swing at him but he ducks effortlessly and steps in toward the beast, using its own momentum to make the impact of his fist against its chin even more powerful. Apparently, his body recalls how to fight as well.

The demon punches at him again, this time just managing to hit a glancing blow into his shoulder. That bloody hoof _hurt_, but Seventeen responds with a quick left-right volley that leaves his opponent reeling backward.

He follows it, planning to hit it again, but without warning it kicks him hard in the right knee, sending him crashing to the floor. As he struggles to get up, it lowers its head and charges. He sees those antlers coming at him and has a split second to wonder whether they’d have the same effect on him as a wooden stake, but he manages to lean just enough to the side to avoid all but one of the tips. It tears a hole in his bicep, and now he’s got a weak knee and an aching right arm. Plus his shoulder is dripping with slime. And he’s barely touched the Chaos demon.

The demon whirls around and charges again. But by now the vampire is steady on his feet, and he leaps nimbly aside as it comes abreast of him. As it passes by he kicks hard at its arse, causing it to stumble into the bars of the cage. It doesn’t do the demon any real harm, but it makes him feel better. The audience likes it, too—they roar with approval.

When the demon turns back around, it has murder in its eyes. Its next few moves are hasty and ill-planned. He realizes that it has become careless in its anger, and he smiles an evil, toothy smile. It feels odd, actually, because it’s the first time he can ever remember smiling.

He engages it in a few more rounds of hitting and the like, managing to score a good couple of blows, but not doing any real damage. He’s toying with the creature, trying to drag things out. Partly because he wants to make it suffer a bit, partly because he’s enjoying this a lot more than any of the alternatives. But the soldiers are aware of what he’s doing, because Turner calls out, “C’mon shithead! Get it over with!”

Maybe this distracts him a little, because the Chaos demon manages to get a really hard kick into his chest. He hears something crack and he sprawls backward onto the floor. Every inhalation brings a sharp pain in his lungs, so he stops breathing and rolls out of the way just before the demon can stomp on his face. He wishes they would take out the plug before he fights—it pokes into him uncomfortably every time he moves.

As the demon comes for him again, he uses his feet to sweep its legs out from underneath it. It crashes down next to him and he rolls in for a killing bite, but it kicks him again. This time it hits his upper thigh, just missing his naked bollocks by an inch. If he had time, he’d resent the fact that his opponents get to wear clothes, while he has to fight nude and exposed. But as he and the Chaos demon stagger to their feet, that gives him an idea.

Seventeen deliberately exaggerates his injuries, slowing his movements and moaning a little, letting his breath whistle thinly through his mouth. He even sways a little on his feet.

The demon charges again, but the vampire is ready and jerks just out of range. As the demon thunders past him, Seventeen grabs its shirt and pulls back. This unexpected maneuver causes it to lose its balance a little, which is exactly what he had hoped. He leaps onto its back, wrapping his legs around its larger frame, and buries his teeth in the back of its neck. It tries to buck him off but he puts his hands on either side of its head and twists.

The Chaos demon falls backward, neck broken. Seventeen is pinned underneath it.

The soldiers stomp their feet and whistle and yell. And after a moment, he pulls himself out from under the dead demon. He slowly stands and the audience cheers louder.

He kneels when Greco orders him to, even though the wounded knee sends knife blades of pain up and down his leg.

At Greco’s command, he changes his face, then stands and limps to the exit. As before, once he is leashed he bows to the audience.

Huddled on the floor, he is whimpering quietly from the pain in his chest and knee. He is also disgusted by the slime that’s liberally coating his face and torso. His handlers must feel the same, because after the others have left, none of them want to get close enough to him to chain him back up.

“C’mon,” Moua whines to Greco. “I’ll never get that shit off my clothes.”

“Shut up, Moua. We all know your mother does your laundry anyway.” Turner and Hicks snicker at that. “Seventeen, I swear to God, you fuck around like that again and I’ll take it out on your hide. You’re here to kill the monsters, not play with them.” He glares at the vampire, who bows his head and tries to look suitably penitent. “All right, assholes, let’s get it cleaned up.”

Back in the training room, Hicks is extra thorough with the hose, and Turner actually takes a wire brush and uses it to scrub away the goo, managing to scrape off a good deal of the vampire’s skin in the process. But Seventeen gets an extra bag of blood this time because Greco wants the damage repaired more quickly. And while he is feeding, Moua gets distracted while playing with his cock, and actually allows the vampire to come.

That makes up a little for the way his injuries ache when Greco orders him into Floor position, and then the men take turns using his mouth and arse.

Turner is the last to fuck him, and he does so with vigor. He grunts twice, and Seventeen can feel the man’s warm spend flooding his mistreated inner passage. Then Turner laughs and reattaches the plug. “What I really like about this plug, shithead, is knowing that it traps my come inside you. Helps remind you how owned you are, when even your insides reek of your Masters.”

In his cell later, Seventeen is haunted by the truth of what Turner said. He possesses nothing—not a single material good, not a history, not his freedom, not his body, not even a real name. What he longs for the most, though, is, well, a friend. Or at least someone who cares for him a little. He snorts softly at himself. Strange kind of vampire he seems to be.

[Part 4b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/2995.html#cutid1)  
 

 


	6. Chapter 4b: Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British!

_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 4b: Fighting** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 4b: Fighting  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British!

Wonderful, not-worksafe illustration by [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  after the cut!

*****This chapter is posted in two parts*****

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
For the first time he can remember, he finds himself actually looking forward to something. He likes fighting. Likes it enough that, although he had initially considered just letting one of the demons dust him, he had decides that the joy of battling is enough to make his existence worthwhile. Enough that he can continue to endure the perpetual misery that is the rest of his life.

And, he learns, he is good at fighting. His opponents have gradually become fiercer and more dangerous, but eventually he dispatches every one of them. He seems to have extensive knowledge of demons tucked away in his brain. He knows their weaknesses, recognizes when he needs to be particularly cautious of a poisonous barbed tail or acidic spittle. Some of them taste awful, and with a few species, he knows he’d best keep his fangs away from them altogether. He finds he understands many of their languages as well, although he doesn’t take the time to chat with them. Most of them are only threatening and cursing him anyway. He can’t understand how he can know so many things without being able to remember a single bloody thing about himself. But in any case, the knowledge proves invaluable as he manages to slaughter his way through an impressive demonic pantheon.

Not that he emerges from the fights unscathed. It’s rare that he exits the cage without at least some extensive flesh wounds, and he’s frequently worse off than that. Sometimes he can’t walk out of the cage at all, and has to crawl. Once or twice he can’t manage even that, and Greco and the boys have to come and drag him out, then wheel him back to the training room on a gurney, muttering and swearing the whole time.

He experiences a long period of suffering when a demon he doesn’t recognize shoots fucking fire out of its mouth, nearly incinerating the left side of his body. His flesh is deeply charred and it takes a long time and many bags of blood before he is healed.

Another time, an Ixahasus skewers him three times with the long, silvery horn in its forehead. He’s particularly angry about this because, while he is naked as always, the demon is actually wearing fucking armor, which leaves its body with very few points of vulnerability. The third time it gets itself tangled up in his ribcage for a moment, and that gives him the chance to tear through the clear scale that covers its single eye and rip the eyeball out of its skull. By the time he disengages himself from the horn, the demon is already dead.

Perhaps the worst incident, though, is when a Zalratnemon digs its heavy claw deeply into his bare and vulnerable belly. A large tangle of his intestines erupts through the resulting ragged hole, and he is forced to continue the fight with precious little abdominal muscle intact, and while tripping over his own innards. He needs the gurney that time, too, and makes the journey to the exam room moaning deep in his throat and trying desperately to hold his guts in place. But Moua runs some water—warm water for a change, and that’s a treat—into the gaping wound and over his entrails. Then the men stuff his insides back inside and hastily sew up the hole. They feed him several blood bags, and he is already starting to heal when he gets back to his cell.

Whatever injuries he suffers, though, he wins every fight, kills every monster they set him against. Sometimes they even make him fight two demons at once. That brings its own challenges, but they are challenges he overcomes.

His audience has gradually grown larger and larger. Now almost every chair is filled with jeering and cheering men and women. Many of them are placing wagers on the fight, and as he drops into his Bow before them, he sees them exchanging money with good-natured frowns and smiles.

His handlers are happy with his performances. Greco tells another soldier that the vampire has turned out better than they’d expected. “Wasn’t sure it’d be able to fight after the wipe,” he says, “but I guess it didn’t matter.”

The other soldier, a muscular black woman, nods her head. “Yeah, ya know vamps are just vicious to the bone. They don’t need to remember shit to be able to kill.”

“True. And since the wipe, we’ve trained it to obey real nicely, too.” Greco reaches over to Seventeen, who is still Bowing, and pats his rump affectionately. “It may be a vicious killer, but it makes a good little bitch.” The other soldier laughs and walks away.

In fact, Greco and the others seem determined to remind him that, despite his success in the cage, he still belongs to them. Not that he can forget. His submission is now wired deeply into his being. As soon as the fight ends and he shifts back to his human face, he automatically complies with every order. It doesn’t even occur to him to disobey now.

But still, whenever he survives a fight more-or-less intact, the soldiers take him to the training room and wash him down. Even if he is already exhausted, they put him through the familiar drills. Then they make him beg to be fucked, and when they are through with that, feed him his blood while teasing his cock and running their fingers in and out of his semen-slick hole. He is hard and aching nearly all the time, and, though he has learned to ignore his erection while he fights, it remains a source of endless amusement to the humans.

 

The last time he fought, a pair of squat green demons with too many tentacles had hurt him quite badly. He’d eventually been able to dash one of the creatures’ brains out against the floor and then tear the other one’s throat open with his fangs. But his left leg had a nasty fracture, his jaw was dislocated (which had made biting into the beast pure torture for Seventeen), and the tip of a thrashing tentacle had blinded one of his eyes.

It had taken him some time to get back into fighting condition, time he had to spend sore and cramped and cold and bored in his cell. So he is quite happy when the soldiers pull him out of the hole, look him over carefully, and declare him fit to go.

As they walk toward the fighting room, Hicks says, “Whattaya guys think? Is it ready for Walsh yet?”

For no particular reason, Turner shoves Seventeen between the shoulder blades, sending him stumbling forward almost into Greco. “Old bitch is never satisfied,” he grumbles.

Greco shrugs. “I dunno. Today’ll be a good test, I think. If it doesn’t get itself dusted.”

“Yeah? What’s up today?” asks Hicks.

“Another experiment that didn’t turn out so good.”

They arrive to find the room completely packed, some of the spectators forced to lean up against the walls and squeeze between and in front of the chairs. Despite its size, the room smells close and rank. Seventeen notes with pleasure that it’s also a little warmer, thanks to the collected body heat. He is so tired of being bloody _cold_ all of the time.

The men unchain him and he walks into his tiny, barred pen. His brow thickens and his fangs drop. He drinks his blood, enjoying the lovely full sensation in his stomach. His jutting cock twitches; a pearl of fluid forms at the tip and drips slowly onto his retracted foreskin. He hands the empty plastic back to Hicks just as the door opposite him crashes open.

A naked man walks into the other enclosure, staring down at his feet. No, not a man, of course. A vampire. A thrill runs down his spine—this is the first time he has faced one of his own kind.

The vampire is very tall and broad. His arms and legs are corded with muscles and his hairless, ridged chest narrows to a flat stomach. Like Seventeen’s, his skin is pallid. Unlike Seventeen, he has not been shaved, and he has a head of thick brown hair. He has wide metal bands around his neck, wrists, and ankles. A long, heavy cock hangs softly between his legs, but Seventeen is alarmed to see that he has no testicles, and his scrotum has shrunk to just a small bit of wrinkled skin.

His shoulders are bowed and a palpable sense of anguish pours from him.

The vampire looks up. He is handsome, with a large forehead and intense brown eyes. He still wears his human face.

He catches sight of Seventeen. His mouth drops open and his body goes rigid with shock.

“Spike?”

 

The other vampire suddenly screams and drops the ground, muscles seizing. His head and one arm are thunking against the bars, and it looks to Seventeen as if he is trying unsuccessfully to pull himself into a fetal ball. He’s still screaming, too, a strangled, hiccoughing noise as his body convulses.

Finally it stops and the vampire rolls slowly onto his back. His chest is heaving and he’s moaning quietly. His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling.

A very tall, dark-skinned soldier stands up and walks to the front of the room, turns and looks at both sets of chairs. “Okay, people, looks like 4315 is going to need a few minutes to recover,” he shouts. “Stupid fucker just _cannot_ learn its lessons. Wouldn’t be any fun to start the show now. Greco, why don’t you show us how well your vampire has learned _its _lessons?”

The audience claps and whistles in response, and Greco gets up and approaches the cage. He’s smiling wolfishly. “All right, Richardson. Wouldn’t want to ruin the show. Seventeen, Kneel.”

Seventeen is confused but he does as he’s told. The door between his enclosure and the cage swings open, but the other enclosure remains closed with the brunet vampire still motionless inside.

“Crawl to the center of the cage.”

Seventeen does, looking nervously through the corner of his eyes at his opponent. If the other vampire were to be released while he was in this position, he’d be at a real disadvantage. But the other gate is still closed and the other vampire has not stirred from his stupor.

“Change your face.”

His brows smooth out and his fangs retract.

“Stand.”

He rises to his feet.

“Back.”

He drops, rolls onto his back, and spreads his legs. He remains expressionless.

“Down.”

“Squat.”

“Floor.”

Greco rapidly fires off the commands and Seventeen obeys. The audience is quiet now, watching intently, probably waiting for him to make a mistake. But he does not. He can go on like this for hours.

He is in a Squat when he’s able to glance at the other enclosure again. The other vampire has roused himself. He’s crouched against the gate on his knees, watching Seventeen with sorrow and anger in his eyes.

“Seventeen, what is your name?”

Seventeen’s head snaps up and he looks at Greco with eyes wide with fear. No, no, not this again!

“I don’t know, Master,” he whispers.

“Louder!”

“I don’t know, Master.”

“What do you want, Seventeen?”

The vampire stares at Greco, bewildered. How in bloody hell is he supposed to answer that? He sees Greco’s hand twitch, as if he might be reaching for his pocket, and blurts out, “To obey my Masters, Master.”

The audience roars with approval at that response. Greco looks pleased. His hand relaxes.

Richardson calls out, “Greco, I think I’d like a demonstration of just how _well_ it obeys.” He is now holding something in his hands—lengths of chain, it looks like.

Greco smiles again and nods. “Sure thing, man. It’s all yours.”

Richardson opens the other door to Seventeen’s enclosure and strides through the cage on long legs. He walks past where Seventeen is still Squatting and bangs his hand on the other vampire’s gate.

“Stand, 4315!”

Slowly, warily, the other vampire stands.

“Closer to me.” The vampire presses himself against the bars. Richardson uses the items in his hands to clip 4315’s collar and manacles tightly to the gate. The vampire’s face and torso are up against the bars; his arms are spread and stretched above his head and his legs are spread wide apart as well.

Satisfied with his work, Richardson turns to Seventeen. “Come here!” Seventeen is unsure whether to walk or crawl, and decides crawling is the safer option. He stops when he sees Richardson’s huge boots.

“Kneel up, Seventeen.” Seventeen rises, and the tall man takes a moment to pet his shaved scalp. “Good dog.

“Okay, Seventeen. Suck 4315’s dick.” The crowd hoots.

Seventeen doesn’t hesitate. He scoots forward a few inches on his knees and gently uses his mouth to pull the head of the limp cock through the bars. The other vampire tenses but can’t move away. Seventeen isn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he just clasps them behind his back.

Gently, he swirls his tongue around the head. He sticks the tip of his tongue into the end of 4315’s foreskin and moves it in and out a bit. The flesh is beginning to swell and harden in his mouth. He moves his tongue in slow, lazy circles, exploring the different feel of this cock. All the soldiers have been circumcised, and besides, he is used to the warmth of a man’s heat inside him. This cock is as cool as he is.

He continues laving the hardening cock, a little anxious about the dimensions it’s achieving. Still, he’s taken bigger. He tries not to look too closely at where 4315’s bollocks should be. He wonders why they were removed, and whether his are next. At least castration clearly hasn’t kept the vampire from being able to function; his organ is completely erect now.

Seventeen is examining the taste of this vampire’s skin as well. It’s like cold iron and salt.

The vampire above him—in him—has begun to pant a little, evidently forgetting he doesn’t need to breathe. But Seventeen remembers, drops his jaw a little and swallows 4315’s cock, relaxes his throat a little more, then swallows again, taking it in to the root. His nose is buried in 4315’s unshaven crotch and he inhales once sharply, scenting an odor that’s so different from the humans’, clean and tangy and _familiar_.

He pulls back a little and rolls his eyes upwards. The other vampire is looking down at him, and he can’t begin to interpret the expression he sees. “Oh, William,” 4315 sighs, his lips barely moving, his voice so quiet only vampire senses can catch it.

Seventeen moves his head back and forth, slowly, sometimes pulling nearly completely off the cock and running his tongue around the thick, spongy head, sometimes pushing lightly into the slit at the end, sometimes pressing his blunt teeth gently into the retracted foreskin. Then he swoops back in and sucks, his cheeks drawing in sharply.

The other vampire hasn’t moved, but Seventeen can sense the minute trembling that has begun in his thighs.

The wet slurping sounds echo loudly in the huge room; all of the humans are watching raptly.

Seventeen’s own cock is rock hard and weeping copiously. He longs for friction, and is tempted to press up just a few more inches against the cold metal bars, or even against 4315’s smooth leg. But his eyes fall on what’s left of 4315’s scrotum and he thinks better of it; who knows what punishment they’d give him for trying to rub himself off.

There’s another tremor in 4315’s legs. The big vampire moans quietly and begins slowly thrusting his hips, pushing forward as Seventeen does, rocking back a bit as Seventeen moves back to lap at the end of his cock. When Seventeen moves in, the thick meat distends his throat. Experimentally, he hums a little. The other vampire’s movements become faster and harder; Seventeen looks up again and sees that 4315’s eyes are closed. The scent of his arousal becomes almost dizzying.

Suddenly, Richardson grabs Seventeen’s shoulders and pulls him off 4315 with a loud _plop_ sound. The man leers at them. “Looks like you’re both enjoying that. Stand, Seventeen.”

He and the other vampire lock eyes. The taller one seems to be desperately trying to communicate some message, but Seventeen hasn’t a clue what it is. Richardson puts a large hand against his back and pushes until the two vampires are pressed close together, skin against skin except where there are bars. Because 4315’s legs are so widely spread, his head is nearly even with Seventeen’s, and their cocks are lined up perfectly.

“Grab its ass, Seventeen. I want you two _real_ up close and personal.”

The bigger vampire’s cheeks are cool and muscular under his hands, like a marble statue, but with soft, smooth skin. And now their cocks are crushed tightly together, hard and wet and slick, and it feels so fucking _good_. Richardson slaps Seventeen’s arse and barks out, “Move it!” and now he is humping into 4315 and 4315 is bucking back, the muscles under Seventeen’s hands tightening and relaxing rhythmically, and he has finally found that wonderful friction. Seventeen lets his head fall forward a bit so that it rests on 4315’s shoulder, closes his eyes. Soft hair brushes at against his head, sending a little shiver down his back. This feels right, the way that fighting feels right, like his body has known what to do all along and has just been waiting for the chance.

Both vampires are moaning now, thrusting and kneading. Seventeen finds himself fighting an almost overwhelming urge to change, to sink his fangs delicately into the corded neck, and drink.

But Richardson pulls him away again. Both of them groan when they lose contact.

“Bend.” And Richardson fumbles with the chains on his plug and pulls it free. Seventeen trembles in anticipation of what will happen next. Sure enough, Richardson tells him to stand with his back against 4315, then says, “Fuck yourself on that dick, Seventeen.”

Seventeen reaches between his own legs, and, very careful to avoid touching himself, grasps the other vampire’s cock. He positions it as well as he can and then slowly slides himself onto it. The brunet gasps and goes very still, and so does Seventeen, getting used to being filled with that cold bulk. He needs some leverage, so he reaches back and grabs the bars of 4315’s enclosure with his hands. He tilts his head back, enjoys the feel of the solid mass behind him.

Gradually, Seventeen and 4315 begin to move together, finding an easy rhythm. If he holds himself just right, 4315’s cock brushes against his prostate with nearly every thrust, sending sparkling tingles straight through his bollocks.

His head is resting back on the other vampire’s broad shoulder, and 4315 bends his own head slightly. The tiniest of whispers in his ear: “Do you remember me?”

Seventeen moans and rolls his head slightly from side to side.

“Do you remember anything?”

Another tiny shake of his head.

They are moving faster now, 4315 plunging deeper into him. Pubic hair rubs against his arse, tickling, sending quavers into his skin, which suddenly feels so bloody _sensitive_. They are both gasping and panting, tasting each others’ breath. He knows close to a hundred humans are watching, their hearts beating, hot blood rushing back and forth through their veins, and he can hear them, smell them, but right now, they don’t matter. What matters now is the good stretch and burn and ache inside him, the feel of the straining body behind him, the little bursts of fire that are singing through his loins with every movement.

He is mewling now, sounds of desperation. Hands clenching the bars hard and arm muscles pulled taut. Arching his back and pushing back and deeper, harder, faster, more. Another ghosting of air near his ear: “Your name is Spike.” And he comes, mouth open, lights flashing in his eyes, frame jerking almost beyond his control, the body behind him jerking too as his spasms push the other vampire over the edge, his own milky fluid splashing out and across the cage floor.

The vampires gradually still, 4315’s softening cock still buried in Seventeen.

The humans applaud wildly, stomp their feet.

Richardson claps Seventeen on the shoulder and grins and says, “Greco’s right. You are a well-trained little cocksucker. Now, get ready to fight, motherfuckers.”

 

Seventeen—no, Spike!—is back in his enclosure, back in his vampire face. The plug is back in place. The taste of the other vampire lingers in his mouth, and he licks his lips. He looks nervously at 4315, who has been released from the bars and now stands, ready for the gate to open.

He looks tired, Spike thinks. Not I-just-had-a-nasty-wallop-of-agony-followed-by-a-bloody-great-shag tired. This is the bone-deep weariness of a creature who just wants to lie down forever and let the world go away. He wonders how old 4315 is, whether his treatment at the hands of these humans has been as miserable as his own. He wonders how 4315 knows him.

There is a screech and a clank, and the gates swing open.

His opponent wastes no time, but immediately rushes in his direction, fangs bared. Spike takes a few steps out of the enclosure and assumes a defensive stance, body slightly crouched, hands tightly balled. 4315 comes sweeping at him, nimbly ducks the fist heading for his jaw, plants a ham-sized fist of his own squarely in Spike’s midsection. Spike _oofs_ and staggers a little, but manages a glancing blow to 4315’s side.

The bigger vampire ducks another hit and darts in low to grab Spike around the middle. He throws him, sending Spike skittering across the floor on his back. But before he can leap on top of him, Spike bows his back and flips up onto his feet. He growls and launches himself headfirst at 4315, who tries to grab his neck but misses, ends up with the smaller vampire’s skull planted solidly in his sternum. They both move back a step.

They wrap their arms around each other in a tight clinch, their moist cocks once again rubbing up against each other, and, despite the punishing grip around his back, Spike finds himself getting hard again.

4315 releases Spike and they fall apart from each other, then attack each other in a dizzying whirl of punches and kicks. Spike comes to the realization that he’s going to lose this battle. He’s a good fighter—a _very_ good fighter—but his opponent is better. The other vampire is taller, stronger, faster, and, it seems, more experienced in combat. Even worse, 4315 knows exactly what moves Spike is going to make, even before Spike himself does.

Although he’s trying his best not to get dusted, Spike really doesn’t mind losing to this vampire. He knows for certain that final death is hardly the worst thing that can happen to him, and dying in battle is about the best fate he can imagine for himself. Besides, even as he’s getting bruised and beaten, as his own blood runs down his forehead and chin, he’s having fun. It’s immensely satisfying to him every time he feels his fists or feet connect with 4315’s body, and the whole dance feels as familiar and right to him as had the shagging earlier.

Spike has a huge, lunatic smile spread across his face. He looks at 4315, sees he’s grinning, too, and his cock is just as hard.

The humans are obviously enjoying the spectacle. They are raucous, shouting out encouragement to one combatant or the other, screaming and hollering when one of them scores a particularly good hit.

Spike is on his back again. He kicks out hard, connects with 4315’s nose, hears it crunch. Both of them are becoming heavily coated in their own and each other’s blood, which makes their grips on one another slippery.

Neither has taken the obvious route and gone for the other’s crotch. Spike, because he figures 4315 doesn’t have any bollocks to hurt anyway, and he finds himself somehow loathe to damage that magnificent cock. 4315 because, well, Spike doesn’t know why. But the rest of their bodies are fair game. Spike can feel a couple of cracked ribs and a nasty tear in one thigh muscle that has him limping. His head is ringing and his knuckles are bruised. It feels like all the skin has been scraped off his upper back.

Spike lunges for 4315’s neck, 4315 swerves and avoids him, 4315 pulls Spike toward him by the shoulders, pinning his arms down, and lowers his fangs towards his neck. Spike squirms but can’t free himself. He feels a sharp tooth just graze his neck, steels himself for a killing bite—and then 4315’s foot has slipped in a puddle of blood and he loses his grip on Spike and falls to one knee.

He didn’t slip by accident.

Spike looks his opponent in the eyes and knows that the other vampire is going to throw the fight.

The tall vampire sees that he understands. He smiles at Spike again.

Spike doesn’t want to kill him. He wants to fuck him. Wants to talk to him—find out who 4315 is, who _Spike_ is, what they are to each other. Wants to rest his forehead on that broad chest and feel those big arms wrap around him and just bloody _hold_ him.

But he smiles back, runs his tongue over his fangs. And 4315’s grin stretches wider as the brunet flings himself onto Spike.

They roll around on the floor together. 4315 bashes Spike’s head against the ground. Spike wraps his fingers around 4315’s throat. They both push with their hips, crushing their erections roughly together. They are growling and snarling and panting and whining and neither really wants to let go, but 4315 eventually does. He yanks himself out of Spike’s hands and pulls himself to his feet.

Spike scrambles up, kicks out hard with his right foot, feels the _crack_ as it connects with the side of 4315’s knee. 4315 groans and his leg collapses from under him. Now 4315 is crouched down on his good knee, his other leg stretched out at a painful-looking angle. Spike roars and grabs him from behind.

 The bigger vampire’s head tilts almost imperceptibly to one side.

Spike leans in and, careful to avoid the metal collar, sinks his eyeteeth deeply into 4315’s neck.

Oh, bloody fucking _hell_.

He’s tasted quite a few of his opponents before, and some of them weren’t bad. And the animal blood they’ve been giving him before each fight—mostly cow, he thinks—has been pretty good. But nothing he can remember, _nothing_, tastes as good as the thick rich fluid now filling his mouth. He can’t imagine that anything could taste as good.

It’s not just the heady coppery-citrus-salty flavor, though. Every swallow sends sparks zinging through his body as if he were sucking on an electric current. At the same time, strength is pouring into his body. His long-dead heart gives a double thump that echoes in his chest.

His cock is rock-hard, trapped between his belly and 4315’s back, and as he drinks he grinds it frantically against 4315, leaving a wet streak up and down the kneeling vampire’s skin.

He feels a rumbling under where his hands are clutching 4315’s chest and he realizes that 4315 is moaning. When he looks down, 4315’s cock is as hard as his, his hips stuttering just as fast. 4315 bucks again and howls, and, although he has no semen to spend, it’s clear that he has reached his release. That is enough for Spike, and he comes, his cool fluid spreading over the muscular back and shoulders.

He is still drinking.

The brunet vampire rolls his head a little and looks up at Spike. His face has softened and is now fully human. Again with the barest movement of his lips, he whispers: “Thank you.”

Spike pulls his fangs out. He grabs 4315’s head with his hands and, with a roar that reverberates thunderously around the room, _twists_.

And is left with nothing but dust at his feet.

 

[Chapter 5](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/3138.html#cutid1)


	7. Chapter 5: Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_ **The Right Tool--Chapter 5: Dating** _

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 5: Dating  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
               He sweeps the sawdust into a dustpan and dumps it into the trash bin, then stands back and examines his work with a critical eye. Nice. The intricately turned legs of the table are perfectly balanced, and the mahogany glows richly in the shop’s overhead lights. Some rich lady in the West Hills is going to be very pleased with it, and for the price she’s paying, she should be.

Dan wanders over and stands next to Xander, then claps him on the shoulder. “Good job, man.” As always, Dan smells like patchouli and pot. He’s a holdover from the sixties, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, beard and moustache a shade or two darker than his hair. He’s prone to tie-dyed shirts and hemp pants and Grateful Dead on the CD player, but he’s also a master carpenter whose work commands top dollar from the city’s elite. And his laid-back attitude toward work schedules is perfect for Xander, who sometimes feels like working, and sometimes not.

Lately, he has. He doesn’t really need the cash—he’s already deposited the first big check from Uncle Sam. But measuring and cutting and sanding and gluing takes enough concentration that Xander doesn’t have to think about anything else while he’s working, and he likes that very much.

Now, though, he’s finished this piece and it’s getting late. Dan is closing things up, getting ready to go home to his wife, Pomegranate, and their organic garden and five rescued mutts and tofu chili for dinner. Dan invites Xander to join them, but Xander declines. All the flower child vibe gets on his nerves after a while and besides, tofu chili? So not somewhere he wants to go.

So Xander climbs in his old F-150 and turns the key. He hears the engine making a funny noise and wishes he were as good with engines as he is with wood, then wonders if he can work out some kind of barter with his mechanic. Maybe Manuel needs some new cabinets or something. Not that he can’t afford to pay for repairs now; he just hates spending money like that if he doesn’t have to.

By now, Xander’s inching across the upper deck of the Marquam Bridge in the last dregs of rush hour traffic. He glances over at the guy in the BMW next to him, who looks like he’s arguing with someone on his cell phone. Xander fiddles with the radio, but can’t find anything he wants to listen to and finally turns it off. He looks out at the slate-gray river rolling 150 feet below him and wonders, if he gunned his engine hard enough, if he could make it through the guardrail.

Fuck.

He needs to get out tonight.

 

He’s just got out of the shower and is still dripping when the phone rings. He glances at the caller ID and smiles. Willow.

“Hey, Will!”

“Xander. I caught you in. Thought you might be going out tonight.”

“Planning to. I’m getting ready right now. In fact, I’m standing here all naked and wet as we speak.”

There’s a giggle on the other end. “Still gay here, Xan.”

“Yeah, here too. Hey, how’re Jen and the kids?”

This time, Willow sighs. “Well, y’know. Jen’s all stressed because she’s up for tenure this year and she thinks the rest of the Women’s Studies Department is out to get her. And Jakey bit one of the other kids at preschool last week, and Sam decided to cut her own hair. The usual.”

“Isn’t that the second time Jakey’s done that? Are you sure he’s not part demon?” Xander is trying to dry himself one-handed as he talks.

“Actually, some days I’m pretty sure he’s all demon. Maybe Nehab’d. Weren’t those the little ones with the lots and lots of pointy teeth?”

Xander wanders into his bedroom and sits on the bed, still naked. There’s a picture of Willow and her family on his dresser, and he likes looking at it when they talk. Jen is plump and sort of earth-mothery, and the twins both have red hair. “So how about you, Will? Are you okay?”

“I’m good. I’m going to a conference next week in Chicago. Should be fun.” Xander thinks that fun isn’t a word he’d use to describe a group of computer science professors, but then he’s not Willow. Obviously. “I’m presenting a paper on that AI stuff I’ve been working on and oh, oh! I’m supposed to tell you that Giles says hello because I talked to him the other day and I really called to see how you are so this is me shutting up now so you can tell me.”

Xander smiles widely. He wonders if she babbles in the classroom, too. “I’m fine, Will. I’ve been pretty busy at the shop. And I have that consulting thing going now, too.”

“Something demony?”

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“Are you sure everything’s all right? Because you sound tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Getting plenty. But hopefully not tonight, because right now I plan to make myself dashingly handsome and then find someone to seduce into hours of hot man-on-man action.”

“_Eeeww_. Okay, Xan, I’ll let you go. I miss you. Can’t you come visit soon?”

“Maybe,” he hedges. “Like I said, pretty busy now. Besides, Boston in February? Eeeww.”

After they hang up, Xander remains sitting on the bed for a long time, still holding the phone.

 

JJ’s is hot and crowded and noisy. Perfect.

Xander catches the cute bartender’s eye and orders a Widmer. Shen draws a pint and hands it across the bar. He leans in close and shouts, “Looking hot tonight, man!”

Xander smiles and hands him a fifty, shouts back, “Thanks. Hey, just keep refilling until I run out, okay?” Shen gives him a thumbs up and Xander turns and looks out at the dance floor. He’s warm already, and knows he probably shouldn’t have worn leather pants. But he looks good in them, and the burgundy silk shirt, and what’s comfort when being dashingly handsome is at stake? He looks down at his pants and has an uncomfortable little flash of memory—Angelus—and wishes he’s worn something else after all.

But two or three beers later a tight little blond with a red streak in his hair and a metal ring in his nose is walking over and smiling up at him. “Hi. Buy you a drink?”

Xander smiles and lifts his glass, which is still half-full. “How about if I buy you one instead?”

The blond’s name is Todd. He’s a student, just finishing his Masters in Poli Sci at Portland State. He works as a barista, he grew up in Hillsboro, he just broke up with his boyfriend, and he really needs to shut up right now because Xander just doesn’t care. He can’t hear half of what Todd’s saying anyway over the thump of the music, and honestly, he just wants to take him someplace quiet and fuck him until they both pass out. Which he finally manages to convey to Todd, who smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him outside.

Todd drives a blue Prius. Xander always takes the light rail to JJ’s so he can drink as much as he wants. He’d seen Uncle Rory get too many DUIs when Xander was a kid to want to take that route himself. Todd has a roommate, so they decide to go to Xander’s place. That’s fine with Xander. He hates waking up someplace strange and having to take the walk of shame, and then trying to figure out where the hell he is and how he’s going to get home.

They pull into Xander’s driveway. Xander rushes around the car as Todd is still getting out, pins him against the door, and swoops in for a long, hard kiss. Their teeth clack together and Todd wraps his arms around Xander’s waist. Xander pushes in a little more, presses his crotch up against Todd’s and discovers that Todd’s as hard and ready as he is. He disengages his mouth and mumbles roughly in the blond’s ear: “Let’s get inside.”

 

Xander Harris is so gay.

He’s known that for a long time now. True, he was confused in high school, and after the fiasco that should have been graduation he went straight from confusion to denial, first dating Anya, then up and joining the Army. Because that was a manly man thing to do. And besides, thanks to that incident on Halloween during his junior year, he already had extensive military knowledge, and that was just about his only marketable skill. Plus, Willow was off at Princeton, Buffy was at Northwestern, and Sunnydale just held a lot of bad memories.

A few years after enlisting, though, denial failed him. He’d met this guy at a party in Escondido, and one thing led to another, and wow. He told himself that it was just a fluke, that he’d been drunk and hadn’t gotten laid in too long. But then there was the guy in Laguna Beach, and the one in Encinitas, and, well…starting not to look so flukey here.

He was relieved when he finally admitted it to himself, and of course, Willow, who was really the only important person in his life by then, had been supportive. Coming out to General Shales had been a little more difficult, but he figures he landed pretty much on his feet.

So it’s been some time since there’s been any question about his sexuality.

But still, as he spoons up against Todd’s back, his spent cock still buried in the sleeping man’s perfect ass, it’s worth repeating to himself. He is _so_ gay.

 

He’s not sure whether he’s pleased or annoyed when Todd’s still there when he wakes up. Todd rolls over, smiles, and gives him a sweet, sleepy kiss. Then he gets out of bed and pads into the kitchen, bare-assed, while Xander watches appreciatively. The meter definitely ticks over to pleased when Todd returns ten minutes later carrying a steaming coffee cup in each hand and a box of donuts under one arm.

“You take it black?” Todd asks, handing Xander one of the cups.

Xander takes a grateful, scalding sip. “I take it anyway I can get it when it’s served to me in bed.”

Todd puts his coffee down on the nightstand and throws the donuts onto the bed, then slides back under the comforter. Xander pulls a donut out of the box and takes a big bite, grins a big chocolatey grin. “Mmm. Breakfast of champions.”

Todd grabs a donut for himself. He runs his other hand over Xander’s muscular chest and flat belly. “Don’t tell me you eat like this every day. You don’t look it.”

“That, my friend, is the result of many, many hours at the gym. Makes up for a diet of pizza, donuts, and beer.” And he takes another big bite.

“What’s up with the mug?” Todd asks, and points at the cup in Xander’s hand.

Xander actually blushes a little. The mug has a picture of a man’s blue-jeaned crotch. The man is holding a pink hammer, and underneath, in rainbow-colored letters, it reads _The Right Tool for the Job_. “A friend gave it to me. Um, I’m a carpenter.”

Todd laughs and leans in for a sticky kiss. “I like it.” And then Xander has to put it down before it spills, because he’s kissing Todd back, and that’s waking him up better than caffeine ever could.

Todd pushes his arm against Xander’s chest until Xander is flat on his back. Then he throws his leg over the larger man, straddling his hips, and bends down to lock lips. He presses in a little, and hello! Feels like we’re awake for sure. Xander pushes up slightly, settling Todd into just the right spot, and they do really fit together very nicely.

Xander thrusts his tongue into Todd’s sugary-tasting mouth and moves it to the same rhythm as their rocking hips. He sucks on Todd’s full bottom lip. Mmm. Frosting.

The blond moves his mouth to the side a little, presses tiny wet kisses up the line of the scar, and then softly sucks and nibbles Xander’s earlobe. Meanwhile, his hands are stroking over Xander’s pecs, slipping down a little to gently tweak and roll his hard nipples. Xander rests his hands on the other man’s ass, each globe turning out to be the perfect size to fit in a large palm. He cups and presses, enjoying the feel of smooth skin and powerful muscles.

Now Todd’s tongue is actually in his ear, and Xander can’t help it—he laughs. Giggles, actually. Ticklish. And Todd laughs back, a nice, sexy chuckle that raises goosebumps on the other man’s arms.

Todd kisses his way back down Xander’s cheek, across his neck, onto his chest. Xander runs his calloused hands up and down the smaller man’s back and sides; he kneads the muscles in his shoulders and biceps until Todd is moaning into his skin, and Xander’s moaning right along with him.

Todd moves down a little now and starts nibbling and sucking on Xander’s left nipple. After a while, he gives the right one attention, too. Xander can tell that the other man is enjoying this as much as he is; Todd is gently humping into Xander’s leg, his cock leaving a wet trail down Xander’s thigh.

Most of the sex Xander usually has is of the late night, drunken, can’t wait to rip your clothes off and sink into you variety. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But this, these slow gentle caresses, the teasing little nips and strokes, it’s driving him crazy in a way that’s totally of the good. It’s—

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

“Fuck!”

Todd freezes and looks up at Xander, who grimaces slightly and says, “Don’t even think of stopping what you’re doing.” The fucking answering machine can get this one. Todd smiles jauntily and keeps going, now heading for Xander’s navel. His tongue slowly fucks in and out, his hands are petting the hard muscles of Xander’s abdomen, and Xander can barely stand it anymore. “Oh, fuck, yes, more of that,” he moans. Todd obliges, all the while quietly humming his own enjoyment.

All the blankets are in a tangled heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, but Xander’s plenty warm now, as Todd licks his way excruciating slowly down the dark line of hair that leads to Xander’s groin. Xander’s starting to arch his back a little, pressing his leaking cock into Todd’s neck, and Todd responds to every movement with a grind of his hips into Xander’s leg.

As Todd nuzzles Xander’s balls while deftly massaging the insides of his heavy thigh muscles, Xander is reduced to string of nonsense: “Oh yeah…more, more..like..don’t stop…right _there_…fuck…oh, god…”

He almost loses it entirely when Todd takes a broad swipe with his tongue up Xander’s cock, all the way from the root to the crown. Maybe Todd can tell this from the other man’s strangled cry, because Todd stops and the two of them spend a few minutes just listening to each other breathe, feeling their hearts pumping wildly in their chests.

Then Todd dips his head down again and delicately inserts his tongue into the slit in Xander’s glans. He glides and swirls around the slick head, and Xander is willing to swear that this man’s tongue is more agile then most people’s fingers. But he can’t swear to anything at the moment, can’t manage a single coherent word, actually, because now Todd is gradually but firmly swallowing him down. Xander can’t help it—he’s bucking into Todd’s throat, not wanting to hurt him, but Christ! it feels so good. He looks down at the bobbing blond head and moves even faster and “Oh fuck, Todd, gonna come, gonna…” and Todd presses a finger into Xander’s puckered hole and Xander _does_ come, spectacularly, with flashing lights and ringing bells and singing angels.

Todd milks Xander with his mouth until the final spasms have calmed, then laps gently around Xander’s softening cock. He licks again, one loooong stroke all the way from Xander’s crotch to his mouth, and they kiss, and Todd tastes like Xander and coffee and chocolate donuts. Todd pushes up with his arms, raising himself off of Xander’s damp chest, and grins broadly. It’s only then that Xander realizes that his shin is wet, and that Todd has come, too.

Xander decides that he’s definitely pleased that Todd stuck around this morning.

It’s only after Todd has collapsed next to him on the bed and both of their panting has slowed that a more sobering thought strikes Xander, and he sits up suddenly.

“Shit!”

Todd sits up, too, alarmed. “What is it?”

“Rubbers. We didn’t use any. Not last night, either.” Damn it! No matter how drunk he was, he was always a stickler for safe sex. Just call him Mr. Safety. But this time it hadn’t even entered his mind.

“It’s okay. Believe me, you’re not going to catch anything from me, and I’m not worried about catching something from you either.” Todd looks very sincere when he says this, but then Xander’s heard it before.

Xander scowls for a minute and then shrugs. Fuck it. It’s too late to do anything about it anyway. And look on the bright side—the way his life goes, he’s likely to get drained by a vampire or eviscerated by some demon with an unpronounceable name long before he dies from an STD.

Todd is still looking worried, and nobody deserves to look unhappy after a spectacular blowjob like that. So Xander swoops down and kisses him. “Look, we squished the donuts.” He points to the mangled box on the bed. “How about we go dig up something more substantial to eat?”

It turns out that Todd, a man of many, _many_ skills, also knows how to cook. Part-time job at a diner when he was in college, he explains. So he fries up a mess of eggs and cheese and onions and whatever else he manages to scrounge from Xander’s fridge, and the two men eat in companionable silence.

Todd disappears for a few minutes while Xander’s washing up and then returns fully dressed. “Sorry, Xan, I gotta go. I have to work this afternoon.”

Xander is about to respond with something flippant—maybe a sarcastic _I’ll call you sometime_—when he’s saved by a warm kiss. Todd gropes Xander’s naked butt in a very nice way and says, “Are you free tomorrow night, by any chance?”

Two hours later, Xander is till slightly buzzed from morning sex and the prospect of an actual second date, when he notices the stupid red light on the answering machine is blinking. Oh yeah. Forgot about that. He presses the button.

“Harris? Shales here. The project is getting ready for an on-site inspection. Be prepared to fly to Omaha soon, probably around the of 15th of March. I’ll contact you with more details soon.”

That is just over three weeks away.

Crap.

 

When Xander calls Todd the next afternoon, they agree that their previous meeting didn’t _really_ qualify as a date, since they seem to have skipped right over the nervous small talk phase and straight into the sex and morning after parts. So they agree that tonight they’ll do things the more traditional way. Xander gets Todd’s address and says he’ll pick him up at seven.

At 6:56, Xander is parking in front of an apartment on Lovejoy Street. It’s the downstairs unit in a converted Victorian house, the kind with lots of scrolls and fish scales and leaded glass. A wildly overgrown garden, mostly gone gray and brown this time of year, leads up the steep walkway to the front porch. A short girl with a pierced eyebrow and tattoos on her forearms answers the door.

“Xander, right? Come on in. Todd’ll be ready in a minute. He’s always late. I’m Fiona, by the way.”

Xander follows her into the apartment. It’s homey. Lots of original woodwork, still in pretty good shape. There’s a worn, comfortable-looking couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, a small tv and stereo on an Ikea stand, and crammed bookcases everywhere. It smells like garlicky tomato sauce.

Xander stands awkwardly by the door. He’s not really used to the whole chatting with the roommate thing and isn’t sure what to say. Fiona gives him a good, long look.

“So, Todd says you’re a carpenter?”

“Uh-huh. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” Inside his head, a part of himself is doing the Snoopy Dance. Todd talked about him with his roommate! That’s a good thing, right?

Fiona has a pretty smile. “Actually, it kinda does. I’m in art school, you know. I want to be a sculptor. So I do pretty much the same thing as you, only with metal, not wood.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself an artist, though.”

“But you _do_ have very talented hands.” This is Todd, of course, who has slipped into the room while they were talking, and who puts his arm around Xander’s waist. He’s dressed up, a little—new jeans that fit very nicely and a silky black sweater. He’s as handsome as Xander remembers. “Gotta go, Fiona. Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she responds, and Xander and Todd walk out the door.

It’s only a short drive to the restaurant, an upscale Mexican place that they’ve both been to before. They don’t talk much until after they’re seated and the waitress has taken their orders and brought them each a Corona.

“So, Xander, you know all my basic stats already. Want to give me the rundown on yours?”

Xander puts his hand over Todd’s, which is resting on the table between them. “I grew up in SoCal, joined the Army after high school, and after they kicked me out for being a fag, I moved here.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I wanted to get away. I’d been here a couple of times and I liked it. Good beer.” He smiles a crooked grin. Truth is, he really isn’t sure what about Portland appeals to him so much. Maybe that it is so definitely not Sunnyhell. And sure, there are demons here, but there are demons everywhere. At least Oregon demons tend to be the friendly sort—they recycle and carpool and buy fair trade.

“How about family?”

Xander frowns at this question. “Not really. I haven’t talked to my parents in years.”

Todd squeezes his hand sympathetically. “I understand. I’m not close with my parents either. They don’t approve of my dating choices.”

“Oh, it’s not just that I’m gay. We’d pretty much gone our separate ways long before I came out. They’re just…. You know, they’re drunks. My whole family are drunks, really.” And at that, he lifts his glass, gives a little toast, and drinks deeply.

Todd takes a sip, too. “Brothers, sisters?”

“Only child, thank God. I have a friend who’s as good as a sister, though. She’s in Boston. Maybe you saw her picture in my bedroom? The redhead?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s cute. Gay?”

“Yep. She and her partner got married last year. They’ve been together for a long time, though.”

The waitress appears with their food and they’re both busy eating for a while. It’s good. Xander holds up a forkful of pescado for Todd to taste, and Todd does the same with his chicken mole. They have another beer.

After dinner, they decide to walk to a café nearby for some coffee and dessert. It’s actually clear this evening, and more than a bit nippy, and it’s really nice to amble down the sidewalk huddled in each other’s arms. The café is crowded but they find a table in the corner. They sit for a long time, talking about…stuff. Movies they’ve seen and music they like, places they’d want to go to on vacation. They discover their shared interest in sci-fi, and Xander is thrilled to be able to discuss Star Trek episodes without worrying about whether the other guy thinks he’s a geek.

Finally, Xander looks down at the plate of chocolate crumbs in front of him and stretches and says, “If I drink any more coffee I’m not going to sleep for a week.”

“Is this the part where I play hard to get and you seduce me? Or should I just say that sleeping isn’t what I had in mind?” Todd grins roguishly.

Xander gets up quickly and reaches out his hand toward Todd. “Consider yourself seduced.”

They go to Xander’s again, and they don’t fall straight into bed this time. Instead, Xander pops some popcorn and they watch part one of _The Matrix_ on DVD, curled up together on the couch. By the time Morpheus is imprisoned, the popcorn bowl is on the floor and Todd is in Xander’s lap. They make out like horny teenagers until the final credits roll.

Then they fall into bed.

 

Todd and Xander see each other five more times over the next couple of weeks. They go out to dinner. They see a movie. They spend some time just hanging out at a pub, drinking stout and eating burgers. They see a band they both like and exhaust themselves dancing. When Todd has a Saturday off, and it turns out to be another uncharacteristically dry day, they go for a long walk through Forest Park. Then they head back to Xander’s house, muddy and chilled to the bone, and have a long hot soak together in Xander’s big clawfoot tub. Xander’s had shower sex a couple times before, but this is his very first shared bath. He vows it won’t be his last.

However they start out, they always end up in Xander’s bed. The sex isn’t mind-blowing, but it’s good—slow, intimate, comfortable. It’s not fucking, it’s making love. And after, they sleep wrapped around each other, and Todd is always still there in the morning, cheerfully cooking breakfast.

This is the closest thing Xander’s had to a relationship since…well, since Anya.

Xander even discovers he likes Fiona, who drags them to galleries with her on First Thursday. Xander’s never been much of an art aficionado, but enjoys listening to Fiona talk about some of the pieces. And let’s face it—he can endure a lot as long as his hot, funny boyfriend is hanging off his arm and sneaking in kisses now and then.

Boyfriend.

There’s a term he’s never used in context with himself.

Xander and Todd and Fiona are sitting and drinking coffee, and Fiona is rolling up her sleeves and pant legs to show Xander more of her tattoos. Then she and Xander get into a long and friendly argument about power drills, which has Todd rolling his eyes and pretending to be bored, while actually groping Xander under the table. Xander has noticed that all evening, Fiona has been shooting Todd some rather angry and meaningful glares, which Todd is blithely ignoring. Xander has no idea what that’s all about, and is way too chicken to butt into whatever the roommates’ squabble is about. He hopes it’s not about him.

The three of them are idly discussing whether to go somewhere else or call it a night when a group of Fiona’s art school friends come into the café. Introductions are made, and Xander feels slightly out of place. Not only is he a couple of years older than these people, but he’s the only one there with no piercings or tattoos or technicolor hair. Fiona ends up leaving with her friends to go to a party somewhere, and Todd and Xander head back to Xander’s place. As they pull into his driveway, he reflects on how cozy his little bungalow looks tonight. Welcoming.

Before they enter the house, though, Xander takes Todd on a detour into the garage and shows him his neat little workshop area. Todd runs admiring hands over the current work in progress, a fancy toy box that Xander’s making for Willow’s kids’ birthday. “I’d like to watch you work sometime,” Todd says. Xander beams and catches the other man’s arm, pulls him in for a hard, brief hug. He’s never brought anyone into the garage before.

Xander and Todd grab some firewood on the way into the house, and then build a roaring fire. Todd arranges some pillows in front of the fireplace and Xander goes to the kitchen to pour some wine. When he gets back, he sits with his back against a chair and pulls Todd toward him until Todd’s leaning back against his chest. They sip their pinot gris and…snuggle. They joke a little about acting girly, but the truth is that Xander can’t remember the last time he felt this content.

Todd talks about what it was like to grow up different in the suburbs. How he never quite felt like he fit in. How the other kids sensed he wasn’t like them and called him a freak. How much he longed for friends who could accept him as he is.

Xander knows that if he and Todd are going to get serious about each other, then pretty soon he’s going to have to let some of the skeletons out of his closet. He almost tells Todd that Tony Harris’s only skill, other than marathon drinking, was an uncanny handiness with his belt, and that his mother’s medicine cabinet was better stocked than most pharmacies. He can’t do it. And he certainly can’t find a way to casually mention any of his many demonic adventures. How do you bring that up in conversation? _Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I was possessed by a hyena? Funny story!_

Instead, he finds himself telling Todd about Buffy, who’d been his first crush, and who was murdered during her freshman year in college. He doesn’t tell Todd that she was murdered by a vampire, some local Big Bad who discovered that the Slayer was much more vulnerable without the Scoobies to back her up.

The two men find comfort in each other’s arms. And when Xander slips slowly, deliciously into Todd’s willing body, admiring the way the blond’s skin glows golden in the firelight, he feels like everything will finally be all right.

 

He reaches groggily for the other side of the bed, only opening his eyes when he realizes it’s empty. He has a small moment of panic—has he somehow scared Todd away?—and then he hears a small noise in the kitchen. He looks blearily at his alarm clock. 2:18. Ah. Time for a belated midnight snack, then.

He pads quietly down the hallway, carefully considering the menu. Maybe some cold pizza would be good. Or a big bowl of cereal—he thinks there are some Cocoa Puffs left.

He turns the corner into the kitchen. And nearly collides with a scaly green demon.

Xander screams.

Instinctively, he crouches into a defensive possession and looks wildly around for potential weapons.

The demon screams too, and jumps backward.

And then its face seems to melt and fade and the red ridge of spines on its head becomes a red streak in otherwise yellow hair.

Todd and Xander are facing each other, both breathing hard.

 

They are sitting at the kitchen table. They both threw on some pants, because this is not a conversation either feels comfortable having naked. But they are still shirtless, Xander’s hair still pillow-mussed. Xander has made some coffee, mostly because it gave him something to do for a few minutes. Now they stare down at their mugs—Todd has Willow’s gift this time—and are silent.

“I’m sorry—“

“I should—“

They start at the same time, smile wryly at each other. Xander gestures at Todd with his hand. “You first, by all means.”

“Xander, I’m…I’m a demon.” Todd cringes a little and looks at Xander, then seems surprised when Xander just sits there, stone-faced.

“I wanted to tell you. Fiona told me to tell you. But…I just couldn’t. I knew you wouldn’t understand. And, and I really _like_ you Xan!”

Xander starts laughing, a small touch of hysteria edging through, and Todd looks alarmed. Clearly, this isn’t the reaction he expects.

“Xan, I—“

“Demon magnet.”

“What?”

“Demon magnet. I’m a demon magnet.”

Now Todd is staring at him blankly.

“Man, I was once almost eaten by a giant praying mantis thing who wanted to mate with me. I nearly had my life force drained by an Incan mummy. A vampire was briefly in love with me after a spell backfired, I lost my virginity to a slayer who then became evil and helped out our mayor who turned into a giant snake and ate the principal, and the longest relationship I’ve ever had was with a former vengeance demon!”

Xander abruptly stands up and begins pacing around the small kitchen.

“And that’s just my love life! Remember I told you about Buffy? She was a vampire slayer—not the one I had sex with—and she was murdered by a vampire. And my best friend, Jesse? Turned into a vamp and then I staked him.”

Back and forth, back and forth.

“I grew up on the fucking Hellmouth! Spent three years of high school patrolling cemeteries and killing demons. And when I joined the Army? More demon slayage. Even now, know what paid for this house we’re sitting in?”

Todd’s jaw is hanging and his eyes are wide.

“Demons! The government consults with me on killing fucking demons!”

Xander is right next to Todd when he says this, looming above the smaller man. Todd stands and backs away until he’s trapped up against the corner of the cabinets. He raises his hands in front of his chest, palms outward.

“Xan, Xan, look, I’m not—“

“Stadnent demon. You’re a Stadnent demon.” And, seeing the expression on the face he had so recently been kissing and caressing, Xander visibly deflates. He takes a step closer to Todd, but slowly, cautiously. “Non-threatening species. I know. Like to settle in small groups and pass for human. Only bad habit is loud shrieking during the annual skin shedding ceremony.”

Todd takes a deep breath and drops his hands to his sides.

“You’re not going to….”

“What? Kill you? No. No, no, no. Not killing anyone tonight.”

“I’m really sorry. I was going to tell you eventually, you know. As soon as I could figure out how to do it without freaking you out.”

Xander laughs shakily. “It takes a lot more than a boyfriend turning green to freak me out.”

“What if I told you I have to turn green _and_ eat raw eggs every night? That’s what I was doing before you woke up.”

“Raw eggs? Nowhere near the top of my squick scale. Try live baby pig.”

Todd raises his eyebrows.

“School mascot. And I so don’t want to get into that story right now. Let’s just say eggs don’t bother me.”

“How about the demon boyfriend part? Does that bother you?”

Xander rubs his face with his hands and leans back against the counter. “Honestly? I don’t know, Todd. I was just starting to maybe get used to the boyfriend part. Not a shining history of great relationships here.”

Todd nods, sadly. He steps forward a bit and raises his hand, then traces Xander’s scar with his thumb. “Demon?”

“Kleynach. Nasty claws.”

Todd brushes the scar again and then takes back his hand.

Xander says, “Look, can we give this some time? We’ve been moving so fast anyway, and I really need to think about this. Get my head on straight. And I’m guessing you need to think about the whole demon-fighting boyfriend thing yourself. ‘Cause I’m pretty much stuck doing that for a while.”

“But not Stadnents?”

“No, no fighting Stadnents.”

Todd nods again, even smiles a little. “This doesn’t mean you’re giving up on us, are you?”

Xander places his big palm on Todd’s bare shoulder. “No. Not giving up. Just give me some time, okay?”

 

Xander drives Todd home shortly after. They don’t say anything at all in the truck. Todd stares forward, watching the windshield wipers swish back and forth.

When they pull up in front of the big old house, Todd pauses and turns back toward Xander. “I’m really…I want this to work, Xan. I want _us_ to work.”

“Me, too. I don’t have a lot else going for me, you know.”

They smile a little at each other, and Xander reminds himself that breaking into tears right now would _not_ be manly at all.

“Todd, I’m going to be pretty tied up with work for the next week or so anyway. Have to deal with the fucking vampires again. I’ll give you a call when that’s cleared away.”

“Vampires? Should I be worried about you, Xan?”

“No, not this time. These are supposed to be _tame_ vampires.” Xander snorts and raises his hand to stroke Todd’s cheek. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”

Todd presses into Xander’s hand, then leans forward for a kiss. He pulls away and puts his finger on Xander’s moist lips. “Soon, Xander.”

 

Xander is thankful for the many, many times he’s had to pack in a hurry. Now he can throw his suitcase together without even thinking about it. He knows what sorts of things he can include that will come in handy as weapons, if need be, but won’t raise the wrath of the TSA. Stupid TSA. Even holy water has to be in three ounce bottles if he wants to take it in his carry-on.

He frowns as he zips his suit into the suit bag. He hates wearing it, but General Shales was particular about these things. Then he frowns at his dress shoes, wondering if he’s going to get frostbite having to wander around Nebraska this time of year.

Well, look on the bright side, he tells himself as he flings his luggage into the truck. At least he’ll have a nice, long flight during which to think about boyfriends and demons and combinations of those two things. And _that_ will give him something to do besides brood about vampires and the Initiative.

He so does not want to deal with either.

[Chapter 6](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/3560.html)


	8. Chapter 6: Demonstration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 6: Demonstration**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 6: Demonstration  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

Today's a busy day. We get some needed exposition, the actual Spanderness finally begins, and I'm going to post two chapters because C7 is short.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
               Spike is thankful for all the many, many hours the soldiers have spent drilling him. Thankful that his body responds automatically to orders now, without his brain having to participate at all. Because after he kills 4315, his mind simply switches off.

Later, he has a vague memory of kneeling in the dust, of changing back his face, of following Greco’s commands to Come and Heel and Bow. He remembers seeing Richardson walk over and shake Greco’s hand and hand him a thick stack of green bills. In the training room, he was hosed down. The soldiers discovered his wounds were already healed, and they spent a long time celebrating, using his mouth and his arse until the taste and feeling of the dead vampire were gone. But Spike wasn’t really there. Either the men didn’t notice the blankness in his eyes, or they didn’t care.

When the haze around him finally begins to lift, and he is once more bound in his cell, he shrieks and screams and howls into the gag. He bangs his head against the coarse wall, then hunches over and buries his tear-stained, snotty face in his knees. His wails subside to a soft keening.

The moment 4315 died, he had felt a pang of grief and loss so profound that he knows he will never quite recover. Whoever 4315 was, he clearly had some kind of important connection to Spike.

Eventually, he finds considerable solace in the great gift that the other vampire gave him. Now, he owns one precious thing: his name.

 

Spike’s next fight is against a K’z’zpon, a great ugly chunk of a beast. This time, there is virtually no audience at all. Just Spike’s usual four soldiers, a handful of scientists in their eternal white coats, and Professor Walsh.

The demon is purplish-gray, with stubby horns poking out from its body seemingly at random. Its breath stinks. But Spike discovers that its breath has nothing on the reek of its guts, which are soon strewn liberally on the floor, the bars of the cage, and Spike. One of the scientists pukes, and a couple more look like they’re thinking about it.

The fight is brief. The K’z’zpon may be big, but it’s also slow. Spike dispatches it in a business-like manner, sustaining only some deep bruises and a dislocated elbow. When the demon has twitched its last, Greco brings Spike out of the cage to bow before Walsh.

“That was fine,” she says. “Make sure you clean it thoroughly by Monday.” And she turns and marches out of the room, minions scampering in her wake.

 

It must be Monday, he thinks. And the soldier boys are taking Walsh’s demand very seriously.

Cold as it is, the water is welcome. After the fight with the K’z’zpon, the men had thrown him back in the hole without bothering to hose him down first. The cell smelled bad before, but now the stench is enough to bring tears to his eyes. And it doesn’t help that he smells as bad as the cell, or that little bits and gobs of demon are stuck all over his body. He tries to scrape them off against the walls, but with his hands behind his back he can only manage so much. He can feel a thin film of filth all over his skin.

Moua wastes no time in turning the water on him full force as soon as he’s shackled in the training room. The man starts by holding the hose very close, aiming it carefully at every bit of skin. It stings and sets Spike to shivering uncontrollably, but it still feels good to get the K’z’zpon off him.

Moua removes Spike’s plug and pokes the hose into his sphincter. Spike would like to protest that that’s the one place the demon bits didn’t get to, but of course he’s gagged. And he wouldn’t dare speak without permission anyway.

As the soldiers stand around, waiting for the water to build up to unbearable cramps in his distended bowels, he notices how tense they are. Worse than the time Walsh came to inspect his training. Turner is growling and snapping at the others, Hicks looks like he’d jump a mile if someone poked him, and Greco’s handsome jaw is set in a grim line. Even Moua has lost his omnipresent grin. They’re talking very little, mostly just Greco barking out a word or two now and then.

Moua lets the water drain out of Spike and replaces the plug. Then he runs the hose all over him again. Hicks and Greco step forward, and Greco buzzes the razor over his scalp while Hicks painstakingly shaves his groin. Then Turner has a go with that painful wire scrub brush, poking the thing into every crevice in his body until he looks and feels like he’s been parboiled. Moua rinses him off again.

Greco walks around him slowly, examining him carefully from every angle, and nods. Hicks approaches again, this time with a small bottle in his hand. He walks behind Spike and pours some of the stuff from the bottle onto the vampire’s head. He rubs it into his skin. Spike sniffs and it’s some kind of oil, smells very faintly of oranges. Hicks deftly works it into his shoulders and back, and that actually feels quite nice. Now Hicks is rubbing over the mounds of his arse, into his crack, and then down the inside and outside of his thighs, his calves and shins, all the way to his feet.

Spike looks sadly down at his missing toe. Wonders what on earth they took it for. A flash of 4315 in his head, and he’s quietly grateful that that’s the _only_ body part they’ve removed so far.

Hicks moves around and works his way up the front of Spike’s body. The oil stings a bit on the freshly-shaved skin of his bollocks, but it feels good when Hicks massages it into his cock, which has already taken an interest in the proceedings. But when Hicks spends a minute too long stroking the firm flesh, teasing him, Greco snaps, “Get _on_ with it, Hicks! We don’t have time to play.” And Hicks quickly smoothes more oil over his torso and arms, then steps back.

Again, Greco looks him over. Spike is worried about why he needs to be so clean and…shiny. And fresh-scented. Good lord, he’s not going to be someone’s dinner, is he? Although he can’t imagine why he’d need all that training just to end up on a supper plate.

Greco finishes his inspection and stands very close to Spike, glaring at him.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, shithead. You’re going to obey perfectly today and not make a single fucking mistake. Because if you fuck this up, do you know what I’m going to do?”

Wide-eyed, Spike shakes his head.

“First, I’m going to let Turner over there do every evil thing to you that he’s been wanting to do so bad.” Spike glances towards Turner, who bares his teeth at him.

“And when Turner’s all done with you, I’m going to take a machete and personally hack off these”—he touches Spike’s arms—“and these”—now his legs—“and these.” He cups Spike’s bollocks in one hand and squeezes his still-hard cock with the other. “Then I’m going to put that rubber hood on your head and throw you in the cell. I’ll lock the door and cement right over it. Never, ever let you out.”

He looks Spike in the eyes and Spike can’t help trembling, because he can tell this is not an idle threat.

“How long can a vampire survive without feeding, do you think? You went a couple of years and you didn’t dust.” Spike’s eyes widen even more. A couple of years?

“We’ve never tested it, but I’ve heard that a vamp will last forever like that, just a hungry fucking sack of bones. Do you want to find out if that’s true?”

Spike shakes his head emphatically, no.

“Then I suggest you be on your best behavior, little vampire. Understand?”

Big, exaggerated nods. He understands. He’ll be good.

 

Spike nearly swoons with relief when they bypass the examination room. Whatever they have planned for him, at least it’s not in there. They continue on through the two sets of doors, into the long corridor where assorted demons glare from their white-tiled cells. Anxiety has caused Spike’s cock to soften and it feels like his bollocks are trying to crawl into his body.

Greco stops outside the door to the fighting room, spins around and glowers meaningfully at Spike. Spike lowers his head and tries to appear as humble and compliant as possible. Greco turns back to the door, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

The audience is small this time. Professor Walsh is there, still in her lab coat, and even as he enters the room, Spike can sense her anxiety. She is sitting next to a black man in his early sixties. The man is wearing a military uniform resplendent with ribbons and bits of metal. His salt and pepper hair is cut very short and his back is ramrod-straight. His body is quite trim and he has deep lines near his mouth, as if he’s had a lifetime of scowling. Right now, he’s scowling at Spike. He has the air of a minor potentate waiting pessimistically for his subjects to please him.

A middle-aged man and woman are seated to his left. Both of them are also in uniform, but theirs have fewer adornments. They look slightly frightened. And next to them is another man. This one is wearing civilian clothes—a gray suit with a white shirt and blue tie—but he looks uncomfortable in them, as if he’s not used to wearing them. He’s younger than the others, perhaps thirty, and has an unruly mop of brown hair and a vivid scar running from beneath his left eye almost to his jaw line. He is gaping at Spike with his mouth open.

Greco leads Spike in front of the humans and orders him to Bow. Spike drops smoothly to his knees, presses his head to the floor, and clasps his hands behind his back. Once in position, he is careful not to move a single muscle. He doesn’t even breathe. Greco stands stiffly at his side, still holding the leash. Spike hears shuffling footsteps as the other men arrange themselves near the door.

“General Shales, thank you for coming here today.” Walsh’s voice is strong and persuasive. The voice of an expert who knows exactly what she’s talking about.

Someone—the general, Spike assumes—grunts out an unintelligible reply.

“As I believe you know, we’ve been working for some time on a special project involving vampires. Our goal is to protect citizens from attacks, and at the same time utilize vampires in our fight against the many species of demons that infest this country.” Spike is listening carefully. This is the first he’s heard any of them discuss what they intend to do with him.

Walsh continues. “We’ve chosen vampires for this project because they have a number of advantages. First, they are very strong relative to their size. And their size is an important factor, because of course they are able to use equipment intended for humans. This saves the considerable time and costs involved in having to modify existing materials or produce new ones.

“Another reason we chose vampires is they are remarkably low maintenance. They just need a small amount of animal blood to remain in good condition. And if a vampire isn’t needed, it can be placed in storage indefinitely without any feeding at all, yet it can be restored to good shape very quickly when needed. For example, we refrained from giving this hostile any feedings at all for nearly twenty-eight months, yet it was fully revived—if you’ll forgive the term in this context—within less than two days, simply by administering sufficient blood.”

Walsh pauses as if she expects a response, but there is none, or at least none that Spike can hear. So she goes on.

“The final major benefit of vampires is their durability. As I’m sure you’re aware, it is quite difficult to actually destroy one of these creatures, as long as they’re kept out of sunlight. And if they are damaged, they repair themselves extremely quickly, again with just a small amount of blood.

“In our work with vampire subjects, we have discovered that even major trauma—partial eviscerations, body compression, freezing, acid burns, and the like—disappears within days.”

Spike has to suppress a tremor at this. Are they planning to do some of those experiments on him as well?

Another woman speaks, presumably the military bint. “But they can’t regenerate body parts, correct, Professor?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Captain Garcia. However, we have been working on that problem, and we have been making good progress.”

“But Professor Walsh, you’ve just made an excellent argument for why we should be destroying these menaces, not _employing_ them!” This is obviously the general speaking. He has a rasping, assertive voice, one clearly used to giving commands.

“With all due respect, General, I’m not sure that employing is the term I would use. I believe that ‘subduing’ and ‘compelling’ might be more appropriate. And ‘training.’ We have developed a reliable training method that results in vampires that are perfectly controlled and obedient. Perhaps now would be a good time for a demonstration.”

The general makes a _humph_ noise that makes Spike strongly suspect the man has crossed his arms. But he says, “Go ahead and demonstrate, please, Professor.”

“Greco? Show us what it has learned.”

Greco says Heel and Spike follows him a few feet until they are in the center of the open area between the chairs and the cage. Then Greco unhooks the leash and steps back. Spike’s muscles feel drum-tight and his stomach is clenched. Even without Greco’s eyes boring holes in the back of his skull, he’d be well aware of the consequences of any errors.

“Stand!” Spike rises smoothly to his feet, his legs spread just so, hands behind him, head meekly bent.

“Kneel!” He sinks down into the proper position in one graceful movement.

“Down!” The concrete floor is cold against his chest and belly.

“Back!” He still hates this one, hates knowing how it opens him up to the scrutiny of these humans. But he remains perfectly motionless on his back, his face betraying no emotion.

“Bend!” He can’t help but think of all the times he’s been buggered like this, both by cocks and by a wide variety of inanimate objects.

“Wall!” He almost hesitates this time, unsure which surface he’s meant to lean against. But Greco flicks his eyes slightly toward the cage and Spike presses up against the bars.

“Squat!” He’s got to the point where he can hold this one for hours, ignoring the fire in his thigh and calf muscles, keeping his balance even if pushed quite hard.

“Floor!” His head hangs down and he concentrates on a tiny little crack in the floor.

“Back! Kneel! Wall!” Now Greco is calling out the commands faster, but Spike just switches off his brain and lets his body do what it has been taught. As he moves, though, Spike is able to get brief glimpses of his audience. The general is still glowering, the two other people in uniforms look fascinated, and the brown-haired bloke in the suit looks like he has gone into shock. Walsh is staring intently, as if she can obtain a perfect performance through the force of her will alone.

He is in Down when Walsh calls out, “Enough, Greco!” In a slightly quieter voice, she says, “As you can see, it complies perfectly. Now, we’ve just taught it a few simple orders, but of course they could be taught whatever the situation demands.”

The General rumbles back, “Yes, I can see how well it listens to simple instructions. But in the field, it would be subject to a great many distractions.”

“Of course, of course. But we have trained it to operate then as well. Greco, show us.”

Spike hears boot steps and knows that more men are approaching. By the smell of them, Moua and Hicks.

Greco once more belts out a series of commands, only now the soldiers are doing their best to make him break form. They kick and hit and punch him, fondle his cock and bollocks and arse, they even spit on him. But of course he is well used to this sort of thing and their actions have no effect on his obedience.

Finally, Walsh tells Greco to stop and Moua and Hicks walk back to the wall. Spike is in Kneel.

“Again, as you can see, General, we are in perfect control of the hostile.”

The other woman speaks again, “Professor, can you briefly tell us how you are able to do this with a vampire?” She says this last word with disgust.

Spike is looking down, of course, but he can hear the pleased smile in the Professor’s voice when she answers.

“Well, we make use of the three factors that influence vampire behavior: pain, food, and sexual arousal. By controlling them, we control the vampire.

“When we began our work, we used purely the principles of conditioning, shaping appropriate responses via punishment and reward. And this worked, but it wasn’t perfect. Many vampires, especially the older ones, have a very long history of experiences which can interfere with the effectiveness of our training.

“So we created an improved technique, which you are seeing evidenced today. We are able to take a vampire and completely and permanently erase all of its episodic memories while preserving its semantic and procedural memories. This means that it can still remember how to, say, walk and speak, and can remember abstract facts. But it does not remember even the smallest thing about its own experiences. We have found that this procedure makes the subjects especially amenable to training.”

There is a silence while the humans digest this information. Spike again has to fight to control his trembling. _Complete_ and _permanent_, she said.

A new voice speaks this time. “Is this procedure, the er….“

“We call it a wipe, Major Ennis.”

“The wipe. Is it difficult?”

“No, not particularly, now that we’ve perfected it. It takes about a week, and uses a combination of specialized chemicals and computers. The subjects have to be heavily restrained because they find it very aversive. Of course they must remain conscious, however.”

Again there’s a pause, and Spike pictures himself as he must have been, chained down and screaming as his identity was destroyed bit by bit. Did he lose the memories in any particular order, he wonders. Was there a moment when he no longer knew where he was born, what his mother looked like, how he became a vampire? Or did everything just sort of gradually fade all together?

The general’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Professor Walsh, your presentation today has been quite impressive. I’m certainly convinced that this creature has become very responsive to its handlers. But a mindless automaton is useless to us. We need something that can dispatch demons without a handler having to order every move.”

Professor Walsh laughs, and that’s one of the creepiest sounds he’s heard. “Of course, General. But the subject still remembers how to fight, and with some additional training makes an excellent combatant. We’ve arranged to demonstrate that to you today as well.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“Certainly. Greco, get them ready.”

Greco tells Spike to Heel, and Spike follows him to the cage entrance. At Greco’s command, he rises and Greco removes the gag. Spike then enters the enclosure, which is locked behind him. He changes to his demon face and hears a little gasp from one of the humans. He can see the humans now out of the corner of his eye. The general, no surprise, is scowling. The two next to him are literally on the edge of their seats, but the man with the scar is leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a hard, white line.

Hicks brings him his blood bag but doesn’t let him feed himself. Instead, Hicks holds it as he sips through the straw. He supposes this is meant to better show his subservience.

Walsh is nattering on again as he drinks. “We have found it’s best if we feed the hostile right before it attacks, so that it’s at full strength. I believe this is pigs’ blood today.”

As always, Spike’s cock has hardened as he feeds, and from the expressions on the human guests’ faces, they are not very pleased by his arousal. He fervently hopes that it doesn’t count as a mistake, but he’s long since learned he can’t control it.

He empties the bag and Hicks takes it away. He waits. If his heart were alive, it would be pounding now. What will he face this time?

 

The door clangs and opens, and a beast enters the other enclosure. Spike hears the humans hiss in surprise.

It’s nearly eight feet tall and has to stoop a little to fit. It’s broad as well, its thick bones supporting slabs of muscle. It’s wearing some sort of coarse trousers, but its yellow, warty skin is otherwise bare. It has a long bony spike protruding from each wrist and sharp spurs on each ankle. It grimaces open-mouthed at Spike, who can see its several rows of jagged teeth. Two curved horns extend from its forehead.

Zeron demon.

The voice in his head informs Spike that the creature secretes a lethal toxin through those wrist and ankle spikes. Unhelpfully, the voice doesn’t seem to know whether vampires are susceptible to this poison.

Squeal and crash, and the gates open.

Spike immediately darts forward. It may weigh twice as much as he does, but he hopes maybe to have the advantage of speed and agility. It lumbers toward him and bellows hugely, showing off those nasty teeth again.

He ducks under its reaching arm and aims a roundhouse kick directly onto its bollocks. Assuming that it has any, and that they’re where they belong. Maybe not, though, because it only grunts a little and swipes at him. He ducks again, kicks at its knee and earns another grunt, then he dances back a few paces.

As the Zeron comes for him again, he swings his fist at the center of its face and connects with its nose. But it wraps its enormous arms around him, lifts him up, and heaves him against the bars of the cage. He hears something inside him crunch as he falls to the ground, and a flash of pain rockets through his right leg.

He’s struggling to his feet as the Zeron advances, but not quite soon enough. It kicks at him. He tries to curl up a bit to protect his vulnerable midsection, and the demon’s spur catches in his right thigh, ripping open a bloody gash.

He has a split second to wonder if the poison is already killing him, but can’t dwell on it because the Zeron stabs toward him with its wrist. He rolls out of the way and lurches upright.

Spike limps quickly around and launches himself onto the Zeron’s back, his arms wrapped around its neck and his feet dangling. He squeezes as hard as he can, trying to suffocate it, but its airway is too well protected by muscle and bone. The Zeron spins and slams backwards into the bars. When that doesn’t dislodge the vampire it does it again, and this time the crunching sound is in Spike’s chest. Ribs. He lets go and drops his hold, gasping thinly.

It stabs its hand at him again, but this time he jerks to the side and grabs its wrist, the leans forward and takes a big bite out of the flesh of its forearm. It tastes like glue and rotting fish, but a thick stream of blood spurts out and the demon emits a satisfying howl of pain. It yanks its arm out of Spike’s grip.

The Zeron thrusts its other arm toward him. This time he moves a little too slowly and the wrist spike enters his right shoulder, passing completely through his body and out the other side. It’s his turn to howl, and he might have collapsed if the bony lance itself weren’t keeping him upright against the bars. Waves of agony shoot through him when he moves his right arm, but he ignores them and grasps the spike with both hands, trying to pull it out of himself.

But the demon pulls its arm back and the spear is extracted.

The demon stabs towards him again, but it slips a little on the floor, which is puddled with its own and Spike’s blood. This time the spike only slices the skin on the side of the vampire’s chest. It’s a messy wound, but not a debilitating one.

And as the Zeron tries again, Spike’s hands shoot out and he grabs the spike. He pulls and twists with all his might, and the thing breaks off. The Zeron screeches and backs away.

Then it rushes at him, but he’s had the chance to get into a good position, and as it nears, he thrusts the stolen weapon up under its chin. The demon’s own momentum carries the spike all the way through its cranial cavity.

Spike lets go of the lance.

The Zeron freezes and drops dead at his feet.

He hears clapping as he, too, collapses face-first onto the floor.

 

Usually, this is the point when they drag him back to the training room and get some blood into his torn body. But not today. Today he lies in a puddle of body fluids, his breath whistling in and out, and listens to the humans talk. He finds if he shifts his head a bit he can watch them as well.

The scarred man has risen to his feet and looks white as a sheet. The man next to him—Captain Ennis—looks flushed and excited, and Spike realizes that that pillock was getting off on the whole spectacle. The woman is turned toward the general and he can’t see her face; the general has relaxed a bit and the lines in his face have eased. Professor Walsh is standing as well, but she looks…triumphant. Spike breathes a tiny sigh of relief. He seems to have pleased her, at least for now.

“Professor, I am very impressed. A Zeron is a formidable opponent, and to defeat it barehanded is quite an achievement. But is the vampire salvageable?”

Walsh looks carelessly in his direction, not really seeing him. “Oh, definitely. Just a little blood and time, and it’ll be ready to go again.”

“But now that I’ve seen how fierce it is, I’m very concerned about escape. We can’t keep them leashed and caged in the field, you know.”

“It can’t escape, and it’s no danger to humans. We’ve implanted a computer chip that ensures that.”

“Didn’t you have some problems with computer chips?

Walsh frowns. “Yes, well, there were some bugs we had to work out of the prototypes. The originals stimulated the pain receptors in the brain whenever the subject harmed a human. And they worked quite well, but they had their shortcomings. In fact, Hostile Seventeen here was one of the first vampires we chipped, back when our Sunnydale site was still in operation, but it was able to escape.”

Spike’s ears perk up at this. He’d escaped? How?

“We recaptured it some years later near San Francisco. I should note that although it had escaped, it was still unable to kill people. Apparently it had survived mostly on animal blood and willing donors.” She shudders a little as she says the last two words. “Its recapture was quite easy, once it was found.”

“Now we’ve implanted the newest chip, which is improved in several ways. The pain response it gives is more severe. Actually, at one point we experimented with even higher pain levels, but we found that they incapacitated the subjects for too long. The chip still gets activated automatically if the subject intends to hurt someone, but now we have an external controller as well. A handler can activate the chip at any time with this.” She pulls the grey box out of her pocket and Spike cringes against the floor. No, please, he already hurts so much.

She presses the button and he screams and writhes on the floor, his wounds sending fresh spasms of agony through him as he moves. The humans watch him until he has calmed down.

She hands the box to Shales, who turns it around in his hand, looking at it as if he’s never seen such a thing. “Harris, I want you to take a look at this.” And he reaches over and gives it to the man in the suit, who looks like someone has just handed him a rattlesnake.

Walsh has more to say, though. “The box has an operational radius of over one mile.”

The general nods as if this impresses him.

“In addition, we’ve added a powerful GPS chip that can be traced anywhere in the world. So the vampire can be released to do its work, and then easily tracked and retrieved. Escapes are no longer a possibility.” She smiles.

General Shales is nodding again. Then he turns to the people he brought with him. “Do you have more questions you want answered?”

“Actually, yes,” responds Major Garcia. “The vampire became, er, aroused when it fed. Can something be done about that?” The humans all glare at where he is huddled on the floor, as if getting a hard-on was something he’d done just to spite them.

Professor Walsh clears her throat uncomfortably. “Yes, well, these creatures do tend to get easily aroused. In some of our earlier work, we castrated the subjects. However, we found that had little effect. Vampires don’t produce hormones, of course, so the testicles are really irrelevant to their sexual responses.

“Now, we do have the option of desexing them entirely. If that was requested, it would be quite an easy thing to accomplish and the subjects would recuperate almost immediately. However, I recommend leaving them intact. As I said before, sexual stimulation is a powerful motivating factor for vampires. If we manipulate that stimulation, we have a very effective tool for maintaining control.”

Spike closes his eyes to hold back the tears that are suddenly threatening. He is so weary of being manipulated, of having no choice at all about even the simplest of things. He almost wishes they would cut off his cock—it’s just a toy for the soldiers to play with, anyway.

“The disadvantage to leaving them whole is that they engage in excessive self-stimulation. In the lab we can avoid this through use of restraints, but that’s not practical in the field. We have devised a solution to this, however.” They’ve devised a bloody solution to everything, haven’t they, Spike thinks bitterly. “Greco, bring the subject closer.”

Greco tells Spike to Come. Spike laboriously pulls himself upright, but his leg refuses to hold his weight and he collapses again. Then he tries to crawl on hands and knees, but with a wounded leg and nearly immobile arm, he makes little progress. Finally, he resorts to pulling himself toward the enclosure on his belly, sort of scooting himself clumsily along with his left leg and arm. Greco opens the enclosure and Spike follows him back to the open area in front of the chairs. Every movement jostles the jagged ends of his broken ribs into his lungs.

Walsh walks over until she’s standing right over him and looks at him thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s going to be able to get into position right now. Greco, I’ll need your help.” At her request, Greco pulls a chair around so that it’s facing the others, then seats himself on it. Turner and Moua come over and lift and manhandle Spike until he is draped sideways over Greco’s lap, his head and arms hanging almost to the floor and his arse held high. The pressure on his damaged chest is nearly unbearable.

“You may have noticed this earlier during our presentation, but perhaps you’d like a closer look now. We have placed a durable barrier in the subject’s rectum. It attaches to two little rings that we’ve inserted into the subject’s body. See?”

Spike hears footsteps as the humans move in for a closer look, and he can see their uniform-clad legs. Greco uses his big hands to pull Spike’s cheeks wide apart.

“The barrier prevents any unauthorized, um, intrusions into the subject’s anal opening. The subject cannot push or pull the barrier out. However, a handler can easily disconnect one of the chains and remove the barrier if access is required.”

The humans spend several minutes staring down at him. He can smell arousal pouring off of Major Ennis, and hopes very much that he never has to spend time alone with that man.

“We have taken additional measures as well. Greco, place it on the floor on its back.”

Moua helps the other man roll Spike over and set him on the floor. A moan escapes from him as they jostle his shoulder.

“We have implanted sensors in the subject’s penis and hands. If it tries to touch itself, it is given an immediate correction. Greco?”

Greco kneels beside him. He grabs Spike’s right wrist, causing him to moan again, and moves his hand towards his crotch. Spike tries to resist, but he has no strength at all in that arm. Greco slaps his hand onto his cock, and searing fire blisters through his groin and hands. He screams and arches his back, then tries to curl into a ball, but Greco is holding him down.

He is blind and deaf with pain for several minutes. When he’s once again aware of his surroundings, Shales is resting his hand on Walsh’s shoulder as the two converse quietly. He can’t see the other two uniformed people, but the other one—Harris—is still staring furiously at him. He sees that Harris is absentmindedly turning the gray box over in his hands, and white terror washes through him.

God, no more, please.

But Hicks and Turner are lifting him onto a gurney and strapping him down, and he lets his eyes fall closed.

 

[Chapter 7](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/3763.html#cutid1)


	9. Chapter 7: Questioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 7: Questioning**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 7: Questioning  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

Today's a busy day. We get some needed exposition, the actual Spanderness finally begins, and I'm going to post two chapters because C7 is short.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
                He closes his eyes as the vampire is wheeled out of the room. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

He’s not sure what part has been the most sickening: watching the naked vampire being paraded in front of them like an animal doing tricks, seeing him tortured as he lay broken and bleeding on the ground, or listening to Walsh’s smug voice as she lectured to them matter-of-factly about the suffering her fucking project had inflicted.

No, the worst part is the knowledge that he _knows_ this vampire, had even fought briefly on the same side as him, after a fashion. He remembers the black duster and the cocksure swagger, the purring of the confident British baritone. But he _sees_ the miserable wreck that has just been displayed before him, and he has to lean his scarred cheek against a cool wall and try to keep his continental breakfast from making a reappearance.

Only a vampire, he tries to tell himself. He’d try to kill you if he could. Hell, he _has_ tried to kill you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Harris, come here please.” Great. Hasn’t he sat here like a good boy without saying a word, without jumping up and throttling that white-coated bitch? What does Shales want now?

Slowly, he walks over to where the other people are clustered. Shales looks almost genial and Maggie Walsh is beaming, a genuine miracle before him, ladies and gentlemen.

“Harris, Professor Walsh has agreed to let you spend some time examining the vampire privately. Perhaps you’d like to test the chip yourself.” He nods towards Xander’s hands, and Xander only then realizes that he’s still holding the control box. Jesus Christ, what if he’s activated it by accident? Quickly, he shoves the box into his breast pocket.

Walsh bares her teeth at him in something that is probably intended as a smile. He and the Professor know each other from his brief time in the Initiative. They hadn’t liked each other then, and time and distance have not made their hearts grow fonder. They’d been trying to ignore one another all afternoon. “Just give the men a little time to feed and repair it a bit, please, Mr. Harris.”

He nods curtly.

The general stands. “We’re going to Professor Walsh’s office to discuss some details of the project. If you wait here, the Professor will have one of her men come get you when the vampire’s ready.”

Another nod, and a moment later Xander is alone in the room.

He sits heavily on one of the chairs and tries to erase the last couple of hours from his brain. But his eyes keep straying to the trail of smeared blood that leads from the cage to the open area in front of him.

The door slams open and he jumps. A young woman in fatigues walks in. She’s pushing an empty gurney and the ends of a pair of leashes are wrapped around one hand. At the other end of each leash a vampire is crawling behind her. The vampires are wearing nothing but heavy metal bands around their necks. Xander sees with a small shock that their limp cocks hang from bare groins; both have been gelded and shaved.

The woman nods at him and reaches down to disconnect the leashes from the vampires’ collars.

It’s clear that the vampires have done this before, because they move into action immediately, without any commands from the girl. They enter the cage. One of them, a tall male with close-set gray eyes, grabs the dead Zeron demon’s shoulders, while the other, a short thin male that looks as if he were barely sixteen when he was turned, grabs the feet. Grunting slightly, they hoist the heavy body and carry it outside the cage, then sling it onto the gurney.

The vampires walk to a small door in the corner of the room and open it. Xander can’t see inside, but it must be a closet. They emerge with buckets and mops, and the short one is carrying a hose.

Xander watches as the vampires clean up the mess from the fight. When they bend to scrub the blood from the floor in front of him, he can see the plugs that have been inserted and secured inside their asses. Neither of them will meet his eyes, but they both keep shooting him fearful looks. The girl is leaning against the gurney, bored.

He is still watching them when the door opens again. He recognizes the man who enters as one of Walsh’s men, the one who looks like the before picture in a Clearasil commercial. “Mr. Harris?” he says. “It’s ready for you.”

He gets up and follows the soldier out of the room and down the hall. They don’t say anything. Xander is frowning at all the confined demons—Jesus, was that an _Ethros_?—and the other man is just looking straight ahead. Xander remembers when he walked a corridor very much like this one every day, and he shudders.

Several twists and turns later, they stop in front of a plain metal door. The soldier says, “Here we are, sir. Just knock when you’re ready to leave.” Xander wants to pound the smug smile right off the prick’s face, but of course he doesn’t. He just waits as the man unlocks the door.

 

As the door shuts behind him, the first thing Xander notices is that the room smells like sex. He flashes to the smirk that the soldier just threw him.

He refuses to think about what that means.

He doesn’t really want to look at the pale figure in front of him, either, so instead he looks around. The room looks like a modern day torture chamber. Chains hanging from the ceiling. Shelves and hooks are stocked with whips and prods and straps and all manner of BDSM paraphernalia. Shit, the room really is a torture chamber.

He refuses to think about that, either.

Finally, he has to turn his attention to the naked body huddled on the damp tile floor.

The vampire is on his knees, his bare head and upper body curled slightly down. His hands are clasped at the small of his back. The soldiers have cleaned him up, and they must have fed him as well, because his injuries are already visibly better. He is trembling slightly; Xander doesn’t know if this is from fear or cold or pain.

Then the vampire looks up, briefly letting Xander see the expression in his eyes. Ah. Fear it is, then.

Xander goes down on one knee in front of the vampire, not really caring if he gets his suit pants wet. Softly, he says, “Spike?”

Spike’s head snaps up, his eyes wide open, and he flinches backwards, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Spike, do you remember me?”

The vampire freezes a moment then shakes his head. His panting is echoing around the room.

“Xander Harris? Buffy’s friend? One of the Scoobies?”

Another tense shake.

“You helped us stop Angelus’s apocalypse. Tried to kill us a bunch of times. Clocked me on the head with a microscope.”

Spike looks horrified.

“Any of this ring a bell?”

The vampire shakes his head again, and Xander sighs.

“Do you even remember who you are?”

Xander had thought that Spike was scared before, but the response to this question is sheer terror.

“No, no, please, Master, p-p-p-please, don’t, I don’t, no more, Master, please….” Spike is shaking so hard now he can barely stammer out a coherent word, and he’s clearly on the thin edge of hysteria.

Xander holds up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Okay. You don’t remember. I get it.”

Spike is silent now, his chest heaving up and down, his mouth open, his eyes so wide that Xander sees white all the way around the irises.

Xander takes a long look at Spike. Muscles quivering under his fine, milky skin. The metal collar digging deeply into his thin neck. Fading wounds on his shoulder and thigh; hairless skull, so shocking without the familiar bleached locks; wet cock curled softly against the shaved groin.

Spike has bowed his head again. Xander places his hand under his chin and gently raises it. Tears are running down the vampire’s cheeks. Xander looks into those blue eyes and sees dread and despair. He doesn’t see any recognition. He doesn’t see any traces of the bold and brash vampire he used to know.

Xander drops his hand and, with a heavy sigh, rises to his feet.

He looks down at what used to be William the Bloody and he thinks about the stake tucked into his back pocket. Fuck. Shales would have his balls. He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Spike.” What else is there to say?

And he turns and walks toward the door.

“Please….”

It’s the barest of whispers. He’s not even sure he really heard it.

But he turns back and Spike’s head is raised, his lips slightly parted, his eyes imploring.

“Please….”

“What is it, Spike?”

“Master, did I, before, was there….”

Spike takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Swallows.

“Please. Did someone…love me?”

Xander is speechless. This is the last thing he expected the vampire to say.

Spike waits for a moment, but, faced with the man’s silence, droops again, curling back into himself with sorrow.

Xander thinks about Drusilla and her crazy rantings about stars and dollies, and he smiles a little.

“Yeah, Spike. Someone loved you.”

And Xander pivots around and knocks on the door.

 

[Chapter 8](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/4075.html#cutid1)


	10. Chapter 8: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 8: Home**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 8: Home  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
             He knows he is in the cell a long time because he can feel his hair growing back. It itches. Greco’s threat, the one about never letting him out again, keeps bouncing around alarmingly in his brain.

But he was good.

He was.

He’d followed every order, put up with every pain and indignity, killed the sodding Zeron demon. He hadn’t fucked up once.

Except.

Except he’d asked the scarred man that question, hadn’t he?

Spoken without permission. Asked a question about himself, about his _past_.

He’d broken the rules in front of a man who’d just told him that Spike had tried to kill him, a man who had every reason to want him to suffer.

But then he considers Harris’s last three words, and no matter how he turns them around in his head, he can’t understand why a man who hates him would say them. Because either it is a lie, but a comforting one, or it is the truth, in which case the aching misery in the center of his being is eased a tiny but oh-so-important amount. To even consider the possibility that someone—anyone—at some point cared about _him_…that is as precious a gift as his name.

He can’t make any sense of it, and after a while he stops trying.

Greco didn’t hand him over to Turner or dismember him, so perhaps that means they will open the door eventually. In the meantime, he rocks himself back and forth, imagining someone’s else’s arms embracing him tightly.

 

When the door screeches open he automatically squeezes his eyes shut and he waits for the rough hands to reach in and haul him out. The soldier boys always want to move away quickly from the stench of the hole and they get angry if he slows them down.

He is surprised, then, to find himself thrown onto his knees and then told to Stay. He slowly cracks his lids open, lurching backward a bit when he finds Professor Walsh glaring down at him.

And he is even more alarmed when he spies the man standing next to her. It’s the man with the scar—Xander Harris. He’s wearing jeans and a red sweatshirt this time, and he’s staring at Spike with an expression of mingled rage and disgust.

But his alarm becomes pure panic when Moua steps up and he sees what Moua’s carrying. It’s the hood. Oh, no, no, no. He starts breathing hard through his nose and whining desperately. He might even have got up and tried to run, foolish as that would be, except Greco is standing behind him and holding him down by his shoulders. Harris narrows his eyes and Spike expects the man to start pounding him any second.

Moua pulls the hood over his head, securing it to his collar. As always, for a few moments his lungs spasm for unneeded air, while his mind reels from the sudden loss of sensory information. Before he has fully calmed himself, a leash is attached and he is pulled to his feet.

They walk for a long time, turning corners and stopping a few times to pass through doors. Surely they have walked farther than the fighting room by now, he thinks. They stop, and he can feel the heat of several human bodies pressing close to him. Then his entire body has an odd sensation of movement; he almost loses his balance but the person behind him shoves him upright. A moment later they are walking again, and he feels the tile under his feet change to something soft—carpet, he supposes—and then to cement.

He is pushed down onto his knees again, and the ground under him is very, very cold. A hand shoves him roughly forward onto his face. Quickly, his feet are grabbed and cuffed and the cuff is attached to the one around his wrists. He’s being lifted now, and shoved into what feels like a metal box. It’s very small—much smaller than the cell, even—and he barely fits. His collar is affixed to something so that he is forced to remain on his side. He feels the front of the box being shut behind his back, and then there’s a slam that’s loud enough he can hear it even through the hood.

A short while later there’s a powerful rumbling hum under his body, and then he is moving.

He moves for a long, long time.

Sometimes he stops and the rumble stops as well, but he begins moving again very soon. Twice, though, the pause is much longer, although he has no way to measure it.

It’s bloody cold.

It’s colder than the cell or the hallway or the three rooms that comprise his universe. He shivers constantly and tries to avoid letting his skin touch the frigid metal walls.

His muscles cramp and his stomach is clenched with hunger.

But he’s afraid he’ll be longing for the box again whenever he finds out what Harris has planned for him.

 

He stops again.

This time, though, he feels some shaking behind him and then suddenly air is rushing against his skin as the box is opened. Someone pulls him out of the box. He is momentarily cradled against a warm chest and then lowered onto another cold concrete floor.

The cuffs on his hands and feet are removed, and Christ! It feels so good to stretch a bit.

He’s being pulled to his knees. The hands are large and calloused, and he has a flash of terror because Turner feels like that. But then he realizes that although he’s being handled firmly, this person is being far gentler than Turner has ever been.

It takes him a moment to steady himself, but as soon as he has, the person fumbles near his neck, and then the hood is slowly peeled off.

His eyes are still tightly shut when the ball gag is finally removed as well. He is allowed to simply kneel there for a moment, jaw working slowly open and shut, arm and leg muscles flexing lightly. He breathes deeply and smells oil and sawdust and hot metal and clean male sweat. Then arms are around his shoulders, guiding him to his feet, and when he sways a bit, a solid body behind him steadies him.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

He’s in a small, dimly lit room. The walls are unpainted wood. He’s standing next to a…truck. And he knows the name of everything he sees, even though it’s all new to him. In front of him is a workbench and there is an array of tools neatly stored on shelves around the bench. A large, unstained wooden box is on top of the bench. To his other side are more shelves, and these hold paint cans and hedge clippers and plastic bins. A reel lawn mower is in one corner.

 A garage. He’s in a garage.

He turns his head and is not at all surprised to see Xander Harris standing behind him. What does surprise him, though, is the expression on the man’s face. He looks exhausted and worried, but not angry.

“C’mon, Spike,” he says. “Let’s go inside.”

Harris puts his warm hand on Spike’s back and leads him out a small door, which Harris locks behind them.

Oh, Jesus Christ, he’s _outdoors_.

There’s rough gravel under his feet, and rain, actual _rain_ is falling softly from the night sky onto his upturned face. He smells trees and woodsmoke and car exhaust and cooking food and damp earth and cat piss and moss and he almost falls to his knees but Harris catches him.

“We need to get inside. Neighbors already think I’m perverted enough.”

They walk a few yards and then Harris unlocks the back door to a house. But when Spike tries to step in, he is stopped by an invisible barrier.

“Oh, shit, I forgot. Spike, please come in.” And he grabs Spike’s arm and pulls him inside.

Harris hits the lights and Spike finds himself in a kitchen. It’s small but neat. The walls are a cream color set off by white molding, and the cabinets are painted deep red. A coffeemaker and toaster sit on the black granite counter. The oak table isn’t very big, but it and the chairs are obviously well-made. The floor is made of polished light maple.

“Home, sweet home,” Harris says, and heads to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle and holds it toward Spike. “Want one?” But when Spike just gapes at him he shrugs, twists off the top, and takes a long swallow.

“I’m beat. I’ll get you some blood and stuff in the morning. But for now, I’m just gonna crash. Let me show you your room.”

He heads for one of the two doorways and seems pleased when Spike follows closely behind him. They’re in a short hallway. Harris waves at an open door with the hand carrying the bottle. “That’s the bathroom. Shower’s in there.” As they pass the next doorway, Spike gets a glimpse of a large, wood-framed bed. “And that’s my room,” Harris says. There’s an archway across the hall, and Harris points to it. “Living room.”

There’s a third door at the end of the hall, and Harris ushers Spike inside and switches on a light. It’s a small, sparsely finished bedroom. A bed is pushed against one wall; next to it is a table and lamp. There’s a chest of drawers against the opposite wall. The walls themselves are bare, except for a large, plain square of heavy black fabric that has been affixed to the wall opposite the door.

“Here you go. It’s not the Ritz, but it sure beats.…” A long pause. “Okay, I’m off to bed now. Um, don’t go anywhere, okay?”

And Harris walks away, shutting the door behind him and leaving a flabbergasted vampire standing in the middle of the room.

For a long time, Spike simply stands. He hasn’t been given any orders and he has no idea what to do. Does “don’t go anywhere” mean Stay? Should he be in proper Stand position?

He hears the man walking about. A toilet flushes and there’s the sound of water running. More footsteps, a door closing. Then just silence.

Spike hasn’t fed in a long time and hasn’t fully recovered from the long, cramped drive. His knees begin to shake and he realizes he’s going to collapse. He looks around him, but sees no clues. Finally, he shuffles on trembling legs to the corner farthest from the door. He allows his legs to fold underneath him so he ends up seated. He pushes his back into the corner and bends his knees up, then wraps his arms around them. He lets his head fall forward.

He’s exhausted, but he takes a while to enjoy the luxuries he’s been permitted. He has never been completely unrestrained unless he was fighting or being ordered about by soldiers. He’s never been permitted to sleep unbound, ungagged, in a space where he can stretch out if he pleases. Although he’s still filthy, the room is spotless, and smells only of Harris and wood. The polished floor and smooth plaster wall feel wonderful against his skin, not like the rough, damaging surfaces of his cell. And he’s never been in a place as warm as this. He feels the comfort of it seeping into his bones.

He wants to stay awake and savor these things because he’s certain he won’t be granted them for long. But soon he falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

“Jesus, Spike!”

The loud voice startles him awake and he immediately cowers into the corner. Harris is standing in the doorway and he looks angry.

“What the hell are you doing in the corner?”

Spike crawls quickly to the center of the room where Harris had left him and pulls himself up into a shaky Stand. But Harris just frowns at him.

“’M sorry, Master,” Spike whispers hoarsely. “Please. I didn’t understand. I’ll be good!”

Harris closes his eyes and runs his hands through his damp hair.

“Spike, I’m not your—“ but perhaps he sees the vampire tense even more, because he doesn’t finish. His voice softens. “Look, you can sleep on the bed. That’s what it’s for. And clothes would be of the good. See, I put some sweats and a t-shirt out for you.” He points at a small pile on the bed. “They’ll probably be kinda big on you. I’ll get you some stuff today that’ll fit better. And don’t you want to take a shower?”

Spike doesn’t understand and doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond.

Harris sighs.

“Okay. How about if I help you get the water running, and after you’re nice and clean you can crawl into bed while I get us some groceries? I don’t suppose I’ll be finding any O Positive at Safeway, though.”

Harris steps towards him carefully, as if Spike were a wild animal that might bolt. He wraps his hand around the vampire’s elbow and leads him into the hallway and down to the bathroom. “Here, just…sit for a sec while I get the shower going.” He guides Spike down onto the closed toilet, then starts fiddling with the tap.

While Harris’s back is turned, Spike sneaks a quick look around the room. It’s a big bathroom, with a pedestal sink and a huge clawfoot bath. The bath has a shower head rigged above it, and a shower curtain covered in pictures of rubber ducks. In front of the bath is a fluffy yellow rug. An open cabinet against one wall is stuffed with yellow towels. The floor is covered in small white tile, and he tries not to look at it because it reminds him a bit of the training and exam rooms. The walls are the same cream as the kitchen.

There’s another piece of black fabric hanging on the wall, and Spike realizes that it’s covering a window. Sunlight—there must be sunlight just on the other side. One quick tug on the fabric and—

“C’mere. The water’s nice and hot. I’ll show you how to adjust it if you want.”

At Harris’s gesture, Spike steps into the bath and then stands uncertainly under the water.

“You really don’t know how to do this, do you?” Spike shakes his head. “Oookay. I’ve never bathed a vampire before. First time for everything, I guess.

“See the soap? Just to your right there. That’s right. Go ahead and soap yourself up.”

Spike stands there, holding the soap. Harris sighs again. Then he strips off his t-shirt and throws it into the corner. He takes the bar of soap out of Spike’s open hand and begins rubbing it over Spike’s chest.

Spike is rigid. The steaming water feels bloody wonderful, and the gentle massage of the soap across his skin is heaven, too. He’s afraid if he moves, Harris will stop.

But Harris keeps going, the soap travelling down to Spike’s belly. He inhales as unobtrusively as he can. The soap smells like vanilla. He’s never smelled anything so good.

Harris has reached Spike’s crotch, and he pauses. “Um…are you sure you don’t want to do this part yourself?” Spike shakes his head emphatically no, and Harris looks puzzled for a moment. “Oh, shit, the sensors. I forgot. Sorry.”

He glides the soap gently around Spike’s groin, where the hair is beginning to grow back in. He rubs the suds onto the scrotum, small circles that make Spike shiver despite the heat of the water. By the time he gets to Spike’s cock, the flesh has lengthened and hardened, the spongy head bobbing near Spike’s navel.

Harris’s face is turning red—a blush, Spike realizes. And he can’t fathom why.

“I guess we’re both lucky I left the dregs of heterosexuality behind me long ago.” His hand moves slowly up and down Spike’s shaft, and Spike is almost ready to come just from the unexpected pleasure of it all.

But Harris drops his hand lower, working the lather on Spike’s thighs, then his shins.

“Jesus, what happened to your toe?”

Spike bows his head. “Cut it off, Master.”

“_Who_ cut it off?”

“Scientists, Master.”

“Why?”

Spike just shakes his head. He has no idea.

“Hmmm. Turn around and let me get your back.”

Harris strokes his fingertips gingerly around the edges of the collar. Spike’s skin is tender there, but he’s so used to it that he rarely really notices it.

“Does this thing come off? It looks really uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know, Master.”

“I’ll take a closer look later. See if I can figure it out.” Spike wonders why he wants the collar off. Maybe he wants to replace it with a different one. Or do something to Spike’s neck.

As Harris soaps Spike’s shoulders and back, he keeps on talking. “So after this, like I said, you can rest while I go run some errands. And I think later today we need to have a long talk.”

Spike tenses when Harris says this. A long talk? Is that when Harris will punish him? Why is he doing all of this first? But since he has no answers to these questions, Spike decides again to enjoy it while he can.

Harris has reached Spike’s buttocks. Spike has to stop himself from pushing back into the hands that are smoothing the vanilla-scented lather. Then the hands suddenly stop.

“Shit. I forgot about the plug. You want me to take it out?”

Spike’s surprised that Harris intends to bugger him now, because he can’t smell the man’s arousal at all. Maybe it’s camouflaged by the vanilla. Or maybe he plans to use something other than his cock. Spike remembers Turner’s fist ripping at his insides and drops his head forward. Harris’s big hand would hurt.

“Spike?” Short pause. “Okay, well, just let me know if you want me to, okay?”

Harris continues scrubbing Spike’s legs, then tells him to turn around again. Harris walks away from the bath, goes to the cabinet in the corner, and returns with a small towel. He uses it to cleanse the vampire’s face, then throws into the sink behind him.

“Almost done.” He reaches around Spike and grabs a bottle off a small shelf. “Just need to shampoo you. Not that you have much to shampoo.” As he talks, he’s rubbing a dollop of the stuff in the bottle into Spike’s stubble, his fingers massaging the scalp deftly. It feels even better than being soaped. “I can lend you a razor if you want to stick with the shaved look. Although…well, whatever you want.” Harris rinses the last of the foam off of Spike’s head and turns out the tap.

He gestures for Spike to get out of the bath, and when Spike does, he hands him a huge, thick towel. But when Spike just stands there, towel in hand, Harris grabs it back and uses it to wipe down the vampire’s dripping body.

“There. Does that feel better?”

Spike nods his head a tiny bit.

“Well, you smell better, that’s for sure.” God, he offended the man with his stinking body, too. What kind of terrible punishment is he going to have to face?

Harris tosses the towel onto the floor and leads Spike back to the spare bedroom. He turns back the covers and looks at Spike expectantly. When Spike doesn’t move, he says impatiently, “Here you go, Spike. Much better than the floor.”

Surely he can’t be meant to get into that bed. What would they do to him for taking that kind of liberty? But he can’t disobey the Master’s order, either, indirect as that order had been. Spike is paralyzed with the agony of indecision. Suddenly, the shock of all that has happened to him in the past few days comes crashing in on him—the long, uncomfortable truck ride; the thousands of new scents and sights and sounds he’s experienced; the repeated uncertainty as to how to respond to Harris’s obscure expectations; the grim mystery of the man’s plans for him.

He can’t hear anything at all except his heavy panting. His legs start to wobble. His vision goes gray, and then everything is…gone.

 

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”

Spike’s eyelids flutter but don’t open. Maybe if he keeps them shut this will all go away. Everything just…soft.

Something soft is covering his body.

He slits his eyes, only a bit.

He’s curled up on his side on the floor, exactly in the spot where he’d collapsed earlier. A thick blue blanket is tucked around him. The weight of a covering on his skin feels unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. He knows it’s irrational, but somehow he feels…safer.

Master is standing in the doorway with a big cup in his hand. His lips are lifted in a small smile. “Got some nummy brunch for you here. Just call me Hemo the Magnificent. Or Homo the Magnificent. Or…never mind.”

When Spike just stares at him, the grin falters. “Don’t you want some blood?”

Blood.

Spike throws off the blanket and scuttles over to Master on all fours. As he’s been taught, he raises his arse and lowers his face, then sticks out his tongue to lick Master’s white trainers.

“Stop! Fuck, don’t do that!”

Frozen in place, Spike risks a glance at Master’s face. He’s furious. This isn’t how he wants Spike to beg.

All right, then. Spike rises to his knees and reaches out to begin unfastening Master’s jeans.

Master curses again and steps backward so quickly that he spills some of the blood. The blood smells good, and Spike’s mouth is watering, even though he knows he won’t be getting any of it. He hangs his head.

Master steadies himself with a deep breath. Then he steps forward and, shockingly, sinks to his knees in front of Spike, clasping Spike’s shoulder with his free hand.

“God, Spike, you don’t have to.… Here, just drink this, okay?”

Spike gapes, unbelieving, at the mug in Master’s outstretched hand. When Master doesn’t move it away, Spike tentatively reaches for it, and Master presses it into his shaking hands. He looks at Master with wide eyes.

“Go ahead, drink it while it’s still warm.”

Spike raises the cup to his lips very carefully—he’s never fed from anything but a plastic bag before—and takes a cautious sip. It is wonderfully warm and—

Fuck!

He almost drops the mug and Master has to shoot his hand out to steady it.

Human.

Master has given him _human_ blood.

He takes another sip and this time he can’t help his response—his eyes roll back in his head and he moans. Dimly, he’s aware that his cock is jutting stiffly in front of him, almost instantly fully hard, but he doesn’t care. Even the freshest of the animal blood they’ve given him tastes like shite compared to the ambrosia that’s coating his tongue and slipping so deliciously down his parched throat.

Suddenly his legs won’t fully support him and falls back onto his heels and closes his eyes and takes great, grateful gulps. Within seconds the mug is empty. An enormous shudder passes through his body and he realizes that he has come, just from the pure ecstasy of the taste of human blood.

He takes a few deep breaths and opens his eyes again, to see Master still kneeling in front of him, mouth hanging open.

“Wow…umm...I guess you liked that then. I’ll, uh, go get you a refill.”

After Master walks away, Spike uses his finger to scoop up the creamy droplets of semen from his legs and the floor. He licks it off, not wanting to be punished for leaving a mess. But there’s nothing he can do about the wetness still on his now-limp cock, and he gazes down at it mournfully.

He can hear Master moving about in the kitchen.

Spike suddenly goes completely still. He’s figured it out.

He fucked up, and Greco carried out his threat to mutilate him and seal him in his hole.

All of this—the beautiful taste of the blood; the warm, cleansing shower; the human’s inexplicable kindness—is a delusion, a dream manufactured by a mind desperate to escape the endless pain and misery.

He silently utters a fervent prayer that he knows will go unanswered.

_Please, please. Don’t let me wake up_.

 

Master returns soon and wordlessly hands him the mug again. It has a picture of a man’s crotch and a pink hammer. _The Right Tool for the Job_. He’s a little startled—he hasn’t known he could read—and bemused. What does it mean?

But the cup is full almost to the brim with fragrant blood. It’s almost exactly human body temperature, and as he swallows, he feels it warming him delightfully from within. Master just watches from the doorway, his broad back leaning against the frame, his arms folded across his muscular chest. The corner of his mouth is curled a bit, as if he’s trying to suppress a smile.

Spike takes deep draughts. The gnawing hunger is fading and his erection has reappeared.

When he’s finished every drop, he holds the mug out. “Thank you, Master,” he sighs. Master’s grin widens and he takes the cup.

“How about if I get you some more while we have that talk?” He gestures to Spike to stand, and Spike has begun to walk to the door when Master holds up his hand.

“Just a sec, Spike. Let’s do the clothes thing, huh? It’s kinda, er, distracting to have a conversation with a naked guy.” When Spike looks at him in puzzlement, Master strides past him. Spike sees that the blue blanket, which is now in a crumpled heap on the floor, had been stripped from the bed. Master picks up a piece of folded gray fabric that’s on top of the sheets and shakes it out. Oh. Fleecy sweats.

“I’m guessing you need some help with this too, huh? C’mere.” Spike does, and with some confusion, Master’s assistance, and a near tumble to the floor, he manages to pull the soft trousers on. It feels so odd to be wearing clothes that he can’t even move. But Master waits patiently for a few moments, another mysterious blush on his cheeks, before grasping his elbow and guiding him out of the room.

Master leaves Spike stranded, standing near the center of the kitchen, while he putters about. He takes a bag out of the freezer, spoons some of its contents into the coffeemaker, fills the coffee pot at the sink, and pours the water through the top of the machine. A minute later and there is the rich, bitter smell of brewing coffee. Spike inhales deeply and decides it’s a scent he likes, although not as much as the vanilla soap.

Spike’s attention sharpens as Master pulls a blood bag out of the fridge. He cuts it open with some scissors that are on the counter and pours the contents into the mug. Spike inhales again. He likes this odor best of all. He watches as Master puts the mug in the microwave and pushes some buttons.

“We’re lucky I have some demon connections in town. They were able to hook me up with blood bank rejects. I guess it really doesn’t matter to you if the donor had Hep C or something, huh?” The microwave beeps and Master removes the mug and sets it on the counter. Spike eyes it hungrily.

Master opens a cabinet and takes out another mug. This one has a cartoon picture of a bed and reads, _Orgasm Donor_. “Present from my ex,” he mumbles. He fills it with coffee and picks up the other mug. “C’mon, let’s go in the other room. I’ll light a fire.”

Spike follows Master—and the blood—through a doorway into the living room. The room is painted in the same cream as the rest of the house, with some fancy white molding around the doorways and at the ceiling. A glass-fronted bookcase is built into one wall and filled with dusty-looking leather-bound tomes. Master sees him looking curiously toward the books. “Giles sent them to me. Sometimes they help when I have to consult.” Spike doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

A big leather couch and two leather reclining chairs take up a good part of the floor space. A huge fireplace dominates one wall, and a large device sits on a stand next to it. The device looks like a television screen, but thinner. A small foyer is off to one side, and Spike can see that it leads to a heavy wooden door and a stairway going up. The walls are bare of any adornment except for a couple of black fabric squares, and he realizes that Master has covered all the windows in the house. He wonders how often Master brings vampires here.

Master puts the mugs down on a small table in front of the couch. “Have a seat. This’ll take a few minutes.”

Once again faced with uncertainty about what to do, Spike Kneels near the mugs. It’s much more comfortable with the thick fabric protecting his knees. Master spends a while with newspaper and wood and a poker—the latter of which Spikes contemplates warily—and soon flames are roaring quietly in the hearth. Spike basks in the warmth that bathes his face and torso.

Finally, Master turns around and frowns at him. “You can…. Look. Just sit on your butt. Like me, okay?” And he folds himself down onto the floor a few feet from Spike, with his legs crossed in front of him. Rather clumsily, Spike imitates his posture. Master hands him his mug and takes a sip from his own. “Go ahead and drink, Spike.”

His third cup of blood tastes every bit as wonderful as the first. He thinks his mind is getting a bit carried away in its delusion—food and clothes and a comfortable seat in front of a warm fire—but he’s not about to complain.

Master takes another drink of coffee and sets it down. He chews on his bottom lip. “Do you remember me, Spike? I spoke with you after you killed that Zeron.” Spike nods and Master looks encouraged by this. “You still don’t remember anything from before the Initiative, do you?”

Spike swallows. “The Initiative, Master?”

“The place where they…trained you.”

“No, Master.” And he shakes his head, too, to emphasize his sincerity.

Master sighs, loudly. “Well, anyway, sometimes I do some work for the government. Help them deal with demons, mostly. And they brought me in to consult on their vampire-taming project. Which is you. I mean, you do kinda know what they’re doing to you, don’t you?”

Spike nods. When Master seems to wait expectantly, he says, “I, I obey and kill demons, Master.”

Master frowns again, but says, “Yeah. Anyway, I persuaded them to let me take you home with me for a while. I told ‘em I needed to test their project outside of the lab, in the field, you know?”

Oh. So Master would be drilling him on commands and taking him to kill things. He wonders if “testing” means using his body, too, because Master hasn’t done that yet. And he wonders if he’s been responding the way he’s supposed to. And does this mean all of this is _real_, not a hallucination? What will they do to him if he fails the test? He wants to obey, wants to be good, but he doesn’t seem to be able to figure out _how_ in this place.

But Master is still talking. “I don’t really want to test you, Spike.” Now it’s Spike’s turn to frown. He doesn’t understand this man at all.

“I just couldn’t…I couldn’t stand the thought of…what they were doing to you. Torturing and, and…and _nobody_ deserves that, not even a vampire. And you and I, we sort of knew each other once.”

Spike is shaking his head, unable to really process what Master just said. It almost sounded like—no. That can’t possibly be right.

“What is it, Spike?”

“But I tried to kill you!” Spike has blurted it out before he can stop himself, and now he cringes in anticipation of the blow that will follow. Or worse.

But Master only smiles. “Yeah, you did. And if I had a dollar for every undead guy or mucousy monster that’s tried to snuff me…well, I’d have a lot of dollars. You weren’t anything near the nastiest of them. And it was a long time ago. Anyway, you weren’t torturing anyone, you were just trying to save Drusilla, mostly.”

Spike wonders fleetingly who Drusilla was and why Drusilla needed saving.

“Anyway, I’m not mad at you. You know, you actually weren’t that awful, for a vampire. You even helped stop Angelus.” When Spike looks at him blankly, he adds, “He was trying to destroy the world.”

Spike’s feeling dizzy and he’s certain he would have blacked out again if he hadn’t just fed so well.

But Master places his hand on Spike’s shoulder and looks intently into his eyes. “Look, here’s the thing. I don’t know how long I can keep you here. But at least as long as you’re in my home, I promise you nobody is going to hurt you.”

Spike wants to believe him. Wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, even blood. But how can it be true?

Now Master is digging his fingers gently in, giving his shoulder a soothing massage. “You can’t leave here because they’ll track you down. But I can keep you fed and clean. And Spike, you don’t have to wait for orders around here. You can do whatever you want. Sleep on the bed. Wear pants. Drink my beer. Just don’t do anything to tick off the neighbors, okay? Last month they called the police because my dog was barking too loud, and I don’t even _have_ a dog.”

He pauses for a moment. “Is anything of this getting through to you? ‘Cause you look kinda…woozy.”

Spike croaks, “Yes, Master.”

“Good. How about if I leave you alone for a while to think about it?”

Spike nods.

“Oh, one more thing. Please—call me Xander, okay?”

 

For a long time, Spike simply sits cross-legged in front of the fire. He doesn’t think. Just stares into the dancing flames, hearing the snap and pop and hiss of the burning wood, feeling the lovely toasting sensation on his skin. He can hear Master—Xander, that is—moving about now and then, just occasional footsteps and small rustlings in the other parts of the house.

Eventually, he replays Xander’s words in his head. He reflects on the expressions that played across the man’s face as he spoke. He looked worried, upset maybe. But sincere. And never cruel. And his hands. Large and rough as they are, they have not yet been anything but guiding, soothing. Compassionate.

He wraps his arms around his belly and rocks himself and feels the tears running down his cheeks. He asks himself, what has he got to lose? The humans will do anything they want to him anyway.

And he decides…to hope.

 

By the time Xander pads quietly into the room, Spike’s tears have dried and the fire has died down.

“Hey, let me fix that.” Xander spends some time poking at the fire, adding more wood, getting the flames high again. He turns and smiles at Spike.

“I was gonna order out for some Chinese. You want some? I don’t know if you’re into human food.”

Spike doesn’t know either. He’s never had any, that he can remember. He shrugs.

“I’ll order some extra and you can try it. If you don’t like it, well, I can always go for leftovers for a late-night snack.” Xander leaves the room again, and Spike can hear him talking in the kitchen. Soon he’s back with an open bottle of beer in his hand.

“Kung pao’s on the way. How about some tv while we wait?”

Spike nods slowly. Xander plops himself down on the couch and starts digging around under the cushions. “Aha!” he says, and Spike stiffens.

He’s holding a controller box.

Spike curls his arms protectively over his head and whimpers. Of course. Of course he has the box and now Spike’s going to have to pay for all the mistakes he’s made, all the times he’s been too stupid to figure out what the human wanted. He wants to beg for mercy but he knows that never works it’ll probably just make things worse and now it’s going to hurt and hurt and then he’ll scream and he was told not to disturb the neighbors and—

And an arm is snaking around his shoulder. He flinches and then freezes. No, no, don’t react, don’t move, don’t—

“Sshh. Sshh. It’s okay. It’s okay. Are you hurt? Spike?”

Xander is kneeling beside him, embracing him, a look of distress on his face. Spike can’t stop trembling and he’s gasping for air he doesn’t need.

“Spike? Sshh. Please. What’s the matter?”

And Spike can only choke out one word: “Box.”

“Box?” Xander is looking quizzically around the room. “Box? I don’t under—Oh! Oh shit. The remote! You thought….Fuck.

“Man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. It’s just the remote control. For the television. It can’t hurt you.”

Spike looks at him.

“That other box? The one that hurts you? It’s still in my truck. I had to take it when they handed you over, but I’m not going to use it.”

He must see the wariness still in the vampire’s eyes.

“Look, I’ll tell you what. Later I’ll bring the damn thing inside, and I’ll give it to you, okay? You can do whatever you want with it. Hide it or whatever. Just…you probably shouldn’t wreck it or mess with it, because I don’t know if that’ll set off the chip. Okay?”

Spike nods, but he’s still shaking.

“I’m such a fucking idiot, Spike. I’m really sorry. I should have….” Xander puts his other arm around Spike and pulls him in close, trying to calm the tremors.

Xander is warm and solid against Spike’s chest. His shirt—a well-worn flannel—whispers against the vampire’s bare skin. Xander smells of coffee and beer and wood and that vanilla soap. He can feel the strength in the man, the mass of the muscles in his biceps and chest. Xander’s hands are rubbing circles on his back.

Of their own volition, it seems, Spike’s own arms rise and encircle the man. Soon, he’s clutching him so tightly that the chip in his head sends him a warning twinge, but Xander only squeezes back and continues the soothing motions of his hands. It occurs to Spike that he ought to feel threatened, trapped and defenseless in the brawny clutches of this human, but he doesn’t. He feels protected.

They spend a long time enfolded together in silence. Spike lets the rise and fall of Xander’s breathing move his own chest. He can feel the powerful, steady beat of the man’s heart.

He starts violently when there’s a sudden ringing noise, but Xander just gently moves his arms so that his hands are resting on Spike’s shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay. Just dinner.” Spike could almost believe that the glittering in Xander’s eyes is unshed tears.

Xander gets up and walks to the door and opens it, letting in a blast of cold air. A skinny young man is standing there with white plastic sacks in his hand. He looks over Xander’s shoulder at Spike, slightly curiously, but only says, “Hi. It’s twenty-six thirty.”

Xander takes the bags and sets them on the floor next to him, then digs in his pocket and hands the kid some bills. “Keep the change,” he says. The kid thanks him, and Xander closes the door.

Spike can smell the food now. Ginger and soy and onions and chilies. Not as good as the blood, of course, but…interesting.

Xander brings the bags over, plunks himself on the floor next to Spike, and begins unpacking the white boxes. They’re soon both surprised to discover that Spike knows how to use the chopsticks. He’s better at it than Xander, actually, and the man pretends to be offended by this, observing that they’re a dangerous sort of utensil for a vampire to have around. Spike snorts at this and almost—_almost_—smiles.

They also discover that Spike likes the food. The noodles are his favorite—he thinks to himself that they might be very tasty dipped in blood—but he also enjoys eating the chilies whole.

Xander gets up at one point and comes back with two bottles in his hand. “Hey, want some Sam Adams to wash it down?” Spike tries the beer but isn’t terribly impressed. “Yeah, you probably want something British.”

“British, Mas—Xander?”

“Yeah. You do know you’re British, right?”

Spike knows no such thing, but now that he thinks about it, he realizes he does speak with a different accent than the humans he’s been around.

“Where…where is this?”

“Portland, Oregon. Stumptown. City of Roses. PDX. And that’s enough nicknames for now, I think. How about some tv?”

Xander gets up and walks to the couch. “I’m getting the remote now, Spike. And it’s just the tv clicker. Can’t hurt you, remember? I’ll even make the ultimate sacrifice and let you have custody of it tonight, but don’t plan on making a habit of it. No demon comes between Xan-man and his remote.”

Xander holds the device out to Spike, who takes it apprehensively. But he can see right away that it’s different from the gray box: it’s bigger and white and has lots more buttons.

For several minutes, Xander gives Spike a basic course in remote control operation. Soon Spike is skipping nimbly through scores of channels, his mouth hanging open in awe. Xander gets comfortable on the couch, head on an armrest, feet up on the cushions. Spike is still on the floor. Little by little, though, he scoots himself backward. By the end of the evening, his back is leaning up against the couch, close to the comforting presence of the human.

 

[Chapter 9](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/4197.html#cutid1)


	11. Chapter 9: Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 9: Bonding**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 9: Bonding  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)   for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

Happy New Year to everyone! Here's hoping for a 2009 filled with peace. And tortured vampires.

 

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)

               The vampire is screaming again.

Twice already tonight his ungodly shrieks have woken Xander up, and Xander has stumbled into his room in his boxers. Both times he finds Spike huddled naked and in a ball in the corner of the room, hands raised defensively in front of him and eyes staring blindly ahead.

“Ssshh, sshh,” Xander has said, and hugged the terrified creature until his wailing has quieted and he has come back to an awareness of where he is. He’s led him back to the bed, deflecting Spike’s horrified apologies, and tucked the blue blanket around his shivering form. Then he’s sat on the edge of the bed, crooning nonsense and rubbing Spike’s shoulders, until Spike’s breathing has evened out and stopped.

The vampire looks so…innocent…in his sleep. His long eyelashes are dark smudges against his pale, pale skin, and his sharp cheekbones make dim shadows in the light from the hallway.

Then Xander has stumbled drowsily back to his own room and thrown himself into bed. His own nightmares have revived, too, memories of abominations he’s seen and done. He’d almost be happy to be roused out of those dreams, if it didn’t mean having to face the ones in the next room.

He had been so preoccupied with getting Spike out of that hell that he hadn’t really thought about what he was going to do with him when he got him home. It certainly hadn’t occurred to him that he’d end up playing nursemaid to a severely traumatized vampire. As he shuffles down the hall again, he curses himself for his own idiocy. How could he possibly think that Spike could spend years in that place—under Maggie Walsh’s charge—and not be badly damaged? Maybe even broken for good. On the other hand, what if he had thought of it? Would he just have left Spike there, then?

He eases the spare room door open. Big surprise. There’s Spike howling in the corner again. The sound sets his teeth on edge, and he tries not to imagine what particular scene is playing in the vampire’s head right now.

He crouches down on the floor, a part of him still amazed that despite his obvious fright and disorientation, Spike has not even tried to harm him. He pulls him into his embrace, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay, just a dream, it’s not real, it’s not real.” Which is a damn lie, but it calms Spike down, and soon Spike is staring at him with huge eyes.

“Oh, Xander, sorry. So sorry. Didn’t mean….”

“It’s okay, Spike. I have bad dreams myself. Sometimes I wake myself up yelling.”

“I-I-I can’t…can’t. Sorry, sor—“

 “Shhh. It’s freezing down here on the floor. Let’s get you back into bed, okay?”

Spike docilely allows himself to be half-carried back to bed, and he collapses onto his side with his head on the pillow. Xander pulls the blanket around him.

“I’d sing you a lullaby but it’d only give you worse nightmares,” he says softly. “Hmmm. I wonder what lullabies for demons are like? Hush little Fyarl, don’t say a word…. No, somehow I can’t picture that.” And as he’s babbling quietly, using his most soothing voice, he’s rubbing his hand up and down the blanket over Spike’s back. He can feel the tension gradually melting from Spike’s body, and then he’s asleep, mouth just slightly open.

Xander starts to stand up, then looks down at the sleeping vampire.

“Fuck it,” he whispers.

He lifts the covers and slips in behind Spike, bodies huddled up close in the narrow bed. He marvels at how perfectly they fit together. Spike is icy against his skin, and he wraps his arm around the still chest, waiting for some of his body heat to transfer.

Spooning with vampires, he thinks groggily, just before his eyes fall shut. _That’s_ a new one for me.

 

He wakes up to find a vampire glued against the front of his body from chest to feet. It feels…nice. Huddled against him under the insulating blanket, Spike’s body temperature is almost human. Xander’s right arm is resting atop Spike’s smooth flank, and the man has to stop himself from stroking his fingers along the silky skin. Spike’s right arm is curled over his. In all, it’s a pretty good way to wake up, except his left arm is trapped under Spike and is completely numb, and his morning wood is pressing firmly into Spike’s ass, with only the thin fabric of the boxers between them.

He’s trying to figure out a way to gracefully extricate himself when he becomes aware that Spike is breathing. He’s awake, but maybe afraid to move.

Xander doesn’t want to frighten him, so he whispers softly, “Morning.”

Spike rolls over and looks at him. They’re still very close to one another, and that’s how Xander learns that vampires, too, wake up with hard-ons, and isn’t that an interesting bit of trivia, and how do they manage it anyway without blood circulation, and that’s so not important right now when the vampire in question is right here in bed with him and those blue eyes and Christ, he can’t take advantage of him, and—

“Morning,” Spike whispers even more quietly. “Do…do you want…you, you can…my mouth…if…”

It takes Xander a moment to understand what Spike is trying to say, and then Mr. Happy twitches an enthusiastic approval of this plan. He’s narrowly outvoted by Xander’s more rational organs. Xander feels his face turn scarlet, and he scrambles out of bed.

“No…um, thanks…but…. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer or anything, but….” He takes a deep breath. “Spike, you don’t have to do that here. I didn’t bring you here to _use_ you, okay?”

Spike looks confused, but he nods.

Xander backs toward the door. “I’m just gonna….I’ll be right back.” And he turns tail and flees.

He heads to the bathroom first, uses the toilet and washes his face. He can’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. In his room, he throws on some old jeans and a Trailblazers t-shirt and picks up a large plastic bag that’s sitting on his dresser. Then he goes back to face Spike.

Spike is sitting on the side of the bed, staring down at his feet. He looks lost. The blanket has pulled away from him and his long cock is still standing rigidly between his legs, and Xander’s blush makes a return visit. Okay, then, he decides. Time for denial. He’s good at that. Let’s pretend the gorgeous, naked vampire didn’t just proposition him, okay?

“Uh, hey Spike. I got you some clothes yesterday. More your style than my sweats, I think. Or, at least, what your style used to be.” As Spike watches, he pulls a couple pair of black jeans and some soft black t-shirts out of the bag. “I’ll get you more soon. I just wanted to make sure these fit, and you were okay with them.”

He hands the small pile to Spike, who looks up at him.

“Do you need some help getting them on?”

Spike shakes his head, and manages to pull on a pair of the pants fairly gracefully. They’re a little too loose around the waist—the vampire really is too thin, Xander notes—but they’ll be okay. Spike gets himself hopelessly tangled in the shirt, though, and Xander has to go rescue him. Xander breathes a small sigh of relief when the vampire is fully dressed—it’s a lot easier to think straight that way. Or maybe think _clearly_ is a better way to put it, because he’s so obviously _not_ thinking _straight_.

Spike looks more familiar, more _right_ now, although he’s still missing the peroxide hair and the predatory grin.

“How about some breakfast? Of the liquid red variety?”

Spike definitely perks up at this. “Yes, please,” he says.

They wander into the kitchen. Spike watches closely as Xander shows him how to heat his blood. “You know, you don’t have to wait for me to offer, Spike. Just help yourself whenever you get hungry.” Spike looks so skeptical about this that Xander clutches his shoulder and looks him in the eyes. “Really. I mean it. I can get plenty more when we need it. And I’m certainly not going to eat the stuff.”

When the mug is warmed, Xander motions Spike to one of the kitchen chairs. Spike hesitates for a moment, but then actually sits on it. He looks stiff and uncomfortable, as if the chair might eject him at any moment, but Xander figures it’s a step in the right direction. He smiles encouragingly at the vampire and turns to brew himself some coffee.

When the coffee is ready, he brings his cup to the table. He throws down a box of donuts, too, and sits opposite Spike. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Spike looks down at his empty cup. “’M good.”

“I know this is all really overwhelming for you. If you need anything, or you want to ask me anything, don’t be shy, okay?”

Spike nods.

“Like, right now. I can tell there’s something you want to know. What is it?”

Spike blinks and swallows. “Was just wondering.…”

“Yes?” Xander says, encouragingly.

“Y-you said you don’t want to…use me. What _do_ you want me to do?”

Xander has to think for a moment, to frame his response the right way. “Spike, I don’t have any expectations or demands for you here. If you want to stay in bed 24/7, that’s fine. You can watch tv—I’ll show you how to play Wii, I’ll bet you like that—or whatever. When you feel up to it, we can go out, let you see something outside this boring house.”

Spike’s eyes get very wide. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that he might be allowed to leave the house.

“Just, you know, make sure you stay inside during the day. I’ve vamp-proofed the whole downstairs, but I think even a cloudy day is bad for your health. And, I’m sorry, but you can’t go without me. It’s…the Initiative, you know? They’ll track you down and dust you. Or worse.”

Spike shudders.

“But I want you to feel like my guest, not my prisoner. Please?”

Xander reaches out and takes Spike’s hand as he says this, willing the vampire to sense his sincerity.

“Xander?”

“Yeah?”

“How…how long can I stay?”

Shit. He knew this was going to come up; he’d just hoped by the time it did, he’d have a better answer. He rolls his eyes upward. Maybe the ceiling can help.

It can’t.

And he can’t lie to Spike.

“I don’t know. I’m hoping I can play them for a while, a few weeks maybe.”

Spike takes a deep, shuddering breath. Xander is still holding his hand, and he clutches it tightly.

“Fuck. I’m….Christ, I’m so sorry. If there was some way I could hide you….”

Spike shakes his head. “No. Thank you, Xander. Even just these two days…I never expected this, yeah? Thank you.” And he squeezes Xander’s hand right back.

Xander gives him a weak smile. “Let’s just enjoy the time we have, okay?”

And as Spike nods again, Xander is in Denialville again, trying to ignore the truth that should have been obvious the minute he lifted Spike out of his truck: there is no way he will be able to live with himself if he hands the vampire back to Maggie Walsh.

 

They sit together silently for a while, Xander sipping at his coffee and eating donuts. He’s pleased when Spike stands up, and, after nervously glancing at him for approval, prepares a second serving of blood for himself. Spike tries a bite of donut and makes a face, then tries dipping it in the blood and makes a bigger face. Looks like Xander gets to keep the pastries for himself.

Finally, Xander decides it’s time to deal with the next bit of unpleasantness.

“Spike? You know that box? The one that controls your chip?”

Spike stiffens.

“I told you last night it’s in my truck. I’m going to go get it now, and then I’m going to give it to you. I’m not going to use it, okay? So no need to freak when you see it.”

“All right, Xander.”

Xander’s encouraged by this and gives Spike a big grin. Spike waits at the table while Xander walks out to the garage and retrieves the damn thing. When he comes back inside, as soon as Spike sees the gray box in Xander’s hand he tenses visibly. But he doesn’t start cowering or hyperventilating, and that’s a big improvement.

Moving slowly, Xander places the box on the table in front of Spike, then he sits back down. Spike just stares at it for several minutes. He pokes at it gingerly with one finger, and Xander realizes the vampire has probably never really had a good look at the device before, and certainly has never touched it.

“Go ahead and hide it if you want. There are lots of boxes and things upstairs, plenty of places to stash something. Just let me know if you want to go upstairs during the day, because I haven’t covered the windows up there.”

“What—what’s upstairs?”

“Just a big room. It got some water damage when the previous owner lived here. I’ve been meaning to fix it up and make a bedroom suite out of it, but I haven’t got around to it. I use it for storage. Um, I keep demon-hunting supplies up there, too, so be careful if you go poking around. Some of that stuff is toxic to vamps.”

Spike picks up the box and lets it lie in the palm of his hand. Then he places it back on the table. “Can you just put it somewhere, please?”

“Sure, Spike.” Xander gets up and picks up the box. He opens the cabinet over the stove, which seems to just accumulate odd bits of things that he never really uses. “How about here?” Spike nods and he stows the box and shuts the door.

Xander leans against the counter and cracks his knuckles loudly. He needs to make some phone calls, the kind he’s not really looking forward to. So he decides to procrastinate a little longer.

“I’m going to go for a run, I think. Will you be okay? I’ll be gone an hour or so.”

“It’s all right if I watch the telly?”

“Sure. When I get back I’ll show you how to work the DVD player, if you want.”

Spike wanders into the living room while Xander goes to his room to change to shorts. He peeks in through the doorway before he leaves and sees the vampire curled up on the floor against the couch, eyes glued to Animal Planet. When he finds himself mentally _aawwing_ at what a cute scene this is, he decides he’d better get going right now.

He decides to head down to the river and run along the esplanade. The drizzle has lightened to a mist, perfect to cool his overheated body. He pushes himself, trying to make up for nearly a week of no exercise. He’s forgotten his iPod, but that doesn’t really matter—he has plenty of noise in his head right now anyway. The steady slap of his feet against the wet pavement and the regular chugging of his breath are soothing, and he tries to just concentrate on them. He doesn’t want to think right now.

 

By the time he gets back, Spike has found a soccer match on one of the ESPN channels. Figures. He waves at the vampire and then heads off to take a shower. When he leaves the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel slung across his hips, he’s surprised to find Spike hovering near the door.

“Xander, could, could I shower too?”

“Yeah, man, of course. Need some help?”

“Yes, please.”

So he heads back into the steamy room, vampire in tow. Spike watches carefully as Xander adjusts the faucet, and Xander tries not to watch too carefully as Spike strips. “Do you want me to soap your back?” He has to admit that he’s not at all disappointed when Spike nods.

Spike has a perfect ass, he thinks, its only flaw being that plastic monstrosity the Initiative has shoved inside. Spike hasn’t mentioned the plug, though, and Xander doesn’t want to bring it up again. In any case, he finds himself spending probably a trifle too long rubbing the muscular globes, but Spike doesn’t complain. In fact, the way he’s pushing back into Xander’s hands reminds the man of a very large cat, and he almost expects him to break out in a purr.

When his backside is immaculate, Spike turns around. Xander sees then how much he’s been enjoying the scrubbing. He thinks about offering the soap back to Spike. But hell, he never claimed to be a saint. And with those sensors, he’d have to help at least part of the way anyway. So he slowly slides his hands over Spike’s chest. Spike closes his eyes and lets his head fall back a little. Xander continues down to Spike’s flat stomach, working his way painstakingly across every little bit of the creamy skin.

Xander twists a little too far and the towel falls off his hips and puddles at his feet. He’d consider being embarrassed, but the towel had been doing a completely inadequate job of camouflaging his erection anyway. Plus, he’s pretty sure Spike doesn’t even need the visual aid—he knows that vampires can smell human arousal quite well.

In any case, Spike doesn’t seem to mind. As Xander’s hand drops even lower to work the suds through the stubble of Spike’s pubic hair, the vampire makes a needy little whine and his hips jerk forward once.

When Xander grasps Spike’s cock with one hand and cradles his balls with the other, Spike eases his lids open and looks at him through slightly glassy eyes. Xander strokes gently up and down the long shaft. He presses his thumb to the plum-colored crown and swirls around and around before pressing into the slit. Spike hisses and jerks again.

“Spike, do you want this?” His voice is hoarse and raspy.

“Yes, please. Please, Xander.” And God help him, but Spike looks like he really means it.

Xander rubs up and down, feeling the hard flesh pulse and twitch under his palm. He gently rolls Spike’s balls, enjoying the feel of the nearly smooth scrotum. When he squeezes and pulls down just a little, Spike moans loudly, reaches his arm out, and grabs Xander’s shoulder, clearly needing to support himself.

Xander starts speeding up his caresses, running his thumb up the underside of Spike’s cock, pushing and pulling at the retracted foreskin. He has his eyes trained on the vampire’s face. On the way his mouth hangs open a bit as he gasps, and on the way his eyes, still locked with Xander’s, glisten with need. When Spike bites his full lower lip, Xander feels his own neglected cock twinge demandingly and leak a thick stream of precome.

Spike’s fingers are digging into his shoulder quite hard. When he sees the vampire wince he figures the chip must have kicked in a little. But now Spike’s hips are moving regularly, his thrusting providing a counterpoint to Xander’s firm strokes. He squeezes the balls again, gives a few more tugs on Spike’s cock, and then Spike is barely holding himself upright as thick, pearly liquid erupts from the head of his cock and coats Xander’s hand.

Xander slowly stills his movements. Spike takes a few deep breaths and steadies himself, and then actually smiles at Xander. It’s a small smile, tentative and unpracticed, but it takes Xander’s breath away.

Xander smiles back.

Then Spike grabs his hand and licks it clean, and Xander almost comes.

Spike drops his hand and, as Xander gapes like an idiot, ducks under the shower spray and rinses off. He peers closely at the faucet and turns off the water. He steps gracefully out of the shower, collapses to his knees on the yellow bathmat, and takes Xander’s dripping cock into his mouth.

Xander means to tell Spike to stop. He means to tell him he doesn’t have to do this. But just about then Spike swallows him whole, and Xander loses all ability to think clearly, let alone speak. Well, he can speak a little, but mostly things of the “Arrggh, yes, oh God, just like that,” variety.

He’s never really given much thought to the potential for nonbreathing beings to give really great blow-jobs. It’s certainly a topic that’s going to occupy his mind in the future, though, at some point when his mind is functional again.

Xander places his hands on Spike’s bristly head. The shower has warmed the skin underneath. Spike’s mouth is still cool, though, and that novel sensation, together with the tight suction, is driving him crazy.

Spike pulls back almost all the way and swirls his tongue around the swollen glans, then moves his head just a small amount, taking only the crown in and out of his mouth. And then without warning he swoops back down and swallows to the root. Xander looks down and watches the almost delicate skull bob up and down, sees his cock appear and then disappear in between the swollen lips. But when Spike rolls his eyes upward and locks his intense gaze on Xander, it’s enough to make the man lose control entirely. He bucks once, twice, three times. “God, Spike, gonna come!” But Spike just pushes in deeper against Xander’s groin, and then Xander is bending over Spike’s head as he judders his release down the vampire’s throat.

Spike waits until Xander’s spasms have passed, then covers his softening cock in tiny little cat-licks.

Xander pries his hands from Spike’s head—he’s relieved to discover he didn’t actually hurt him—and groans.

“Spike, Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Spike is still on his knees, and he looks up with genuine puzzlement.

“It wasn’t good, Xander?”

“Oh, it was a lot better than good. Not even in the neighborhood of good. But, but, I shouldn’t have.” Xander sits heavily on the closed toilet and buries his head in his hands.

He’s spent lots of time reading about vampires and he knows they have extremely active sex drives. And Spike has been manipulated and tormented by the Initiative for years, and then left with no way to satisfy his own urges. So Xander doesn’t feel bad about jacking him off in the shower—Spike clearly wanted it and maybe even needed it.

But what’s Xander’s excuse? Spike is here less than 48 hours and already Xander’s abusing him. He’s not any better than those bastards in Omaha.

“But you wanted to, Xander. I-I could tell.”

“I wanted to but I shouldn’t have, Spike!”

Spike recoils at this and Xander realizes he’s frightened him a little.

He slips off the toilet so that he’s on his knees across from Spike, and he rests his hand on Spike’s still-warm shoulder. Much more softly, he says, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to _use_ you. You’ve had enough of that already. You’re not a fuck-toy, Spike.”

The vampire still looks baffled, but Xander doesn’t know how to explain it any better. So he rises to his feet and sticks out a hand to help pull Spike up, too.

“I’m gonna go get dressed. Then I’ll introduce you to the Mario Brothers.”

 

Spike gets the hang of the video game very quickly. Xander stretches out on the couch and watches him play. He’s so agile and graceful. Of course, Xander knows that—he’s seen him fight—but this is different, because Spike isn’t locked away in some cage. Now he’s _here_, almost close enough to touch. And the knowledge that he could touch, could do just about anything he wanted to that beautiful body, is enough to make Xander ashamed and hard again at the same time.

Eventually, though, the exercise followed by the Bathroom Incident—as Xander is now labeling it in his head—takes a toll. Xander falls fast asleep.

When he wakes up, he has no idea how much time has passed. It’s hard to tell with the windows blacked out. The television is off, the Wii remote abandoned on the floor. He has a small moment of panic, but catches a movement out of the corner of his eyes. Spike is over near the bookshelf, head tilted to the side as he reads the titles.

“Hey, Spike.”

The vampire jumps a little when Xander speaks.

“You can look at the books if you want. They’re not exactly the latest bestsellers. Mostly a bunch of demon compendia and stuff.”

“But it’s okay, Xander?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Xander stands up and stretches and thinks about what to eat for…whatever meal it’s time for. He glances at his watch. Nearly six thirty. Crap. He’d slept for a long time. ‘Course, he didn’t get much shuteye last night.

Spike has grabbed a book off the shelf and is now sitting cross-legged on the floor, avidly poring over the pages. Well, must not be a watchers’ diary, then. Those things are boring as hell. But with that thought an idea blooms in Xander’s head.

He’s going to need to call Giles.

Crap.

 

It’s the middle of the night in England, so at least Xander can put off calling Giles until tomorrow. But there are some other calls he really needs to make now.

He reheats some of the leftover Chinese. While he’s at it, he warms a mug of blood and brings it to Spike, who looks up from his book with another of those knee-shaking smiles.

As he chases the noodles around his plate he decides to make the easiest call first. He pushes in the number and then grins, knowing that somewhere in the Portland metro area right now, a cell phone is playing “Mexicali Blues.”

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Dan. Xander.”

“Xander! Hey, man. I was wondering if you’d fallen off the face of the earth or something.”

“No, just had to do some of my secret government work.” This is an old joke between the two of them. Dan has a tendency toward paranoid fantasies about the government—he claims the FBI has a dossier on him over six inches thick—and Xander pretends he’s some sort of black helicopter type. Of course, the truth is he really _does_ do secret work for the government, but Dan doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, you ready to go back to being a plain old carpenter? Just got a couple commissions and I could really use the help.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s why I called. I’ll be there tomorrow, okay?”

“Great, man.”

“See you then.”

“Later.”

Okay, one down, and that wasn’t bad at all.

The next set of numbers probably is making something by the Indigo Girls play.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Will.”

“Xander! What have you been doing? I tried to call four times this week and you weren’t there. I was worried!”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine. I had to take a trip.”

There’s silence on the other end and Xander knows that Willow is frowning. Unlike his boss, she’s well aware of his consulting work, but she doesn’t approve. She thinks he should have signed on with the Watchers’ Council full-time, even though Xander would rather be boiled in oil.

“So, well, I’m home now.”

“Are you okay, Xander?”

“I’m all in one piece. How are the kids? And Jen?”

“Don’t you change the subject on me, mister. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Will. It’s just…fuck. Do you remember Spike?”

“Spike? The vampire? The one who kidnapped us so I would do the love spell and then we kissed and Cordelia and Oz saw and there was falling and….”

“Yeah, that Spike.”

“You know, Giles told me once that he came back to Sunnydale again. After we went away to college and you enlisted. He kind of hung around a while and was acting really strange, and then he disappeared again.”

Xander lets this sink in a moment. That must have been the first time the Initiative caught him. Xander had heard some of what happened—several hostiles escaped, and the Initiative decided to move to a more secure facility in Nebraska. Xander hadn’t known then, of course, that Spike was one of the escapees.

“Xan? Are you still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Will. Just thinking.”

“So what about Spike?”

He takes a deep breath. “The Initiative is working on this project to turn vampires into demon hunters. It’s fucked up, of course. Shales called me in to consult, and then I discovered that their demo vamp is Spike. Will, they really…damaged him. They wiped all his memories and tortured him and raped him and chipped him and…” He stops. Now there’s along pause on the other end.

“Xander? What did you do?”

“I….I brought him home with me.”

“Spike is in your _house_? Right _now_?”

“He can’t hurt me, Will. He can’t hurt any humans because of this thing they put in his brain.”

“Well, what are you going to do with him?”

“I’m supposed to bring him back soon. Will, I can’t do it. I’ll dust him first. What they’ve been doing to him, it’s—it’s _evil_.”

“I know you don’t like the Initiative, but you can’t…steal…their vampire.”

“I know. They can track him anywhere. But I mean it—I can’t hand him back to those fuckers.”

“What are you thinking, Alexander Lavelle Harris?”

“Could you come here? Take a look? You’re Computer Girl. Maybe you can find a way to disable all those electronic devices.”

“That’s Computer Woman. And even if I could disable the chip, wouldn’t he get all fangy then and that’s bad, Xander.”

“I don’t know. He’s…not the same, you know. Anyway, I want to try.”

There’s another long pause, then Willow speaks. “You have a crush on him, don’t you?”

Xander considers himself lucky that Willow can’t see him blush right now. “C’mon, Will, he’s still a vampire.”

“Yeah, and a pretty sexy vampire, as I remember. And since when did a little bit of demon stop you from romance, Xander?”

“I am so not having this conversation. Please, can you please just fly out here?”

“We have spring break in three weeks. Can it wait until then?”

“Yeah, I think so. Thanks, Will. I love you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Gotta go.”

“Get back to your hunky vamp. I’ll call you in a few days with my flight itinerary.”

“Bye, Will.”

He needs a beer before he makes the next call. Maybe two or three.

He grabs a bottle out of the fridge and wanders back into the living room. Spike is still sitting with the book in his lap, but he’s not reading any more. Instead, he’s staring at Xander, eyes wide.

“Something wrong, Spike?”

“Heard what you just said.”

Oh yeah, right. Vampire hearing. Xander shrugs. Spike might as well hear the truth now.

“You’ll really dust me instead of taking me back?”

“Well, I was trying to avoid doing either, but yeah. Yeah.”

Spike closes the book and sets it on the floor next to him. Then he scoots over to Xander on his hands and knees and presses his mouth to the man’s bare foot. Xander hops back a step, appalled, and Spike says brokenly, over and over, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you….”

Xander drops down to the floor and, grasping Spike’s shoulders, raises him up. The vampire is crying. And fuck, now Xander feels his own eyes starting to well up, so he grabs Spike in a big hug, and after a second Spike grabs him back. This is starting to become a habit.

[Chapter 10a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/4519.html#cutid1)


	12. Chapter 10a: Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**| [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 10a: Falling**_

**Chapter Title:** Chapter 10a: Falling  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon  
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.  
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

It's tomorrow now, so here's another chapter. And I struck the jackpot with another wonderful manip! This one's by [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/) **. Thank you!!**

***Today's chapter is another 2-parter***  
  
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

He’s too emotionally drained to manage another phone conversation tonight, so he ends up firing up the DVD player instead. He rifles through his Tarantino collection and then holds up his prize with triumph. “I think you’re gonna like this one.”

He’s right. But then, what’s not to like? Xander hasn’t cashed in his straight card so completely that he can’t appreciate Salma Hayek. And, well, the fangs and the gratuitous blood and guts are fun for the whole family. Spike actually laughs a couple of times, and that sound sends a pleasant shiver straight down Xander’s spine.

Xander is reclining on the couch again. Spike sits on the floor with his back against the couch. Sometimes Xander casually brushes his hand against Spike’s shoulder, and Spike leans back into the touch.

The light catches Spike’s collar, which is only partially covered by the neck of his t-shirt. Xander pauses the movie. “I forgot that I’d promised to take a look at your collar. Do you mind?” Spike shakes his head and then is still as Xander examines the thick band of metal.

Xander winces a little at the chafed, slightly reddened skin. The damn thing is really digging in. But the metal appears to be completely smooth. He can’t see any catch on it at all.

“Do you know how they got this thing on you?”

“No. I think—I think I was unconscious.”

“Shit.”

Xander has some tools that could probably cut through the metal, but, as tightly as it presses against the neck, Xander’s afraid he’d end up seriously injuring Spike in the process. Vampires and decapitation don’t mix.

Maybe someone in the Initiative could clue him in. But he can’t think how he can ask about removing the collar without appearing suspicious. Obviously, those fuckers really wanted it to stay on.

Who else might be able to help? Willow? Giles?

“I’m sorry, Spike. I’m going to have to think about this one.”

“’S okay.”

Xander gives Spike’s shoulders a little squeeze of consolation. “I’m thirsty. Want anything from the kitchen?”

Spike thinks for a moment. “Can I have more blood?”

“Sure. Have as much as you want. Be right back.”

When Xander returns with a bottle of Sam Adams in one hand, a mug of A positive in the other, and a bag of barbeque potato chips in his mouth, he finds Spike sitting on the couch. His body is pressed tightly against the arm rest, as if he wants to take up as little room as possible, and his muscles are tense. He’s clearly set to drop back to the floor at the slightest provocation. Xander just smiles around the bag and hands him the mug. Then he throws himself down on the other end of the couch.

Xander puts the movie back on. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Spike relaxes in tiny increments. When Xander rips the chips bag open, Spike turns and looks at him. “Want some?”

Spike slowly scoots across the cushions until he’s only a few inches away and peers at the bag. “Chips?”

“Yeah, well, crisps to you, I think. One of the many useful things I learned during my time in London.” Xander holds the bag out and Spike reaches in cautiously. He emerges with a single chip, which he stares at before shrugging and taking a bite. His eyebrows go up.

“You like it?”

Spike nods.

“Well, there’s more.”

This time Spike scoops out a handful. Xander is just thinking how strange it is to be sitting in his living room, listening to a vampire _crunch crunch_ through Lay’s, when Spike slides over the last few inches. Now his side is pressed against Xander. When their arms touch, Xander’s startled by the chill of Spike’s skin. He plops the bag into Spike’s lap and then drapes his arm around Spike’s shoulders. Spike searches his face and then leans against him. And the only thing stranger than listening to a vampire eat potato chips is _snuggling_ with a vampire who’s eating potato chips.

 

Nobody can ever say Xander Harris doesn’t learn from experience.

Tonight he only goes running into the screaming vampire’s room once before just climbing into bed with him.

“Is this okay?” he asks Spike, who’s still trembling in the aftermath of his nightmare. For an answer, Spike molds himself back against Xander’s body.

Neither of them wakes again until morning.

 

Xander is paralyzed.

No, he’s pinned down.

He opens his eyes.

Ah.

A sleeping vampire is draped over most of his body. The bristly head is nested in the hollow of his shoulder, mouth just inches from his jugular. One arm is wrapped around the side of his torso and the other lies outstretched atop his. Spike’s limp cock is cupped in the indentation below his hip; he can feel the shape quite well even through his boxers.

And there goes Mr. Happy, who’s trapped under Spike’s leg, but is most definitely not paralyzed.

“Spike…” he whispers.

Spike’s eyes flutter open. He raises his head a little and blinks at Xander.

“I have to get up.”

Spike blinks again and rolls off him to stand on the floor. Mr. Happy likes rolling.

Xander stands too, and stretches. “Go back to sleep if you want. I have to make a couple calls.” Spike looks thoughtfully at the bed and then clambers back in, pulling the blanket up around himself. He shuts his eyes.

Xander wanders into the kitchen and starts the coffee brewing. Then, with a heavy sigh, he picks up the phone.

“Yes? Rupert Giles speaking.”

“Hey, Giles. Xander. Xander Harris.” As if Giles knows another Xander. Or maybe as if he’s forgotten this one in the six years since they’ve spoken.

“Xander?! Is something the matter with Willow?”

“Oh, no, Will’s fine. I just talked to her last night.”

“Oh, very good.”

Way awkward pause.

“Is there something I can do for you, Xander?”

“Yeah, I was wondering….Could I have a copy of the watchers’ diary entries on Spike?”

“Spike? William the Bloody?”

“Yeah. And maybe you’d better include the stuff on Drusilla and Angel while you’re at it.”

“Might I ask why the sudden interest in the Scourge of Europe? None of them have been spotted for years.”

“Hmm, yeah, well, it’s sorta for this thing I’m working on.”

“Xander, I assume you’re still doing your consulting work.”

“Don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Yes, well, you know you would always be welcome at the Council.”

“No thanks, Giles. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“I’d rather hoped you would.” Xander can hear the glasses being polished five thousand miles away.

“Can I still see the diaries?”

“Certainly, Xander. Shall I fax them?”

“Actually, I don’t have a fax machine handy. Could you snail mail them?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Giles. Uh, Giles?”

“Yes?”

“It’s been good to talk to you.”

“Likewise, Xander.”

“Maybe we could do it again soon? Like, sooner than six years?”

“I should like that very much.”

“Bye, G-Man.”

“Goodbye, Xander.”

Xander has a small smile on his face when he hangs up.

He chugs his coffee, grimacing as he realizes he forgot the sugar again, and frowns at the phone. He has to get this over with. But after he dials, he’s given a stay of execution when it clicks over to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Xander. And, umm, I’m back. So, I thought….Can we maybe meet up and talk? I’ve gotta go to work now, but I’ll be home around six. Uh, talk to you soon, I hope?”

He has a quick shower, then heads back to the spare room. Spike is still curled up under the covers, and he has a strong urge to join him. Instead, he just sits on the edge of the bed. Spike blinks up at him sleepily.

“Spike, I have to go to work now.”

“Demon killing?”

“Oh, no. I just do that…sort of part-time. I’m a carpenter, actually.”

Spike looks at him as if he’s just announced he’s Queen of England.

“Carpenter, you know? I build furniture. I’m pretty good at it, actually, but my boss has this funny habit of expecting me to show up and work now and then.”

Spike nods, a little uncertainly.

“So I’m going to go now, and I’ll be back in, oh, about six or seven hours probably. Will you be all right for that long?”

Another nod.

“You know you can help yourself to blood, or whatever you want if you get hungry? There’s even some chips left, I think.”

“Thank you.”

“Just stick in the house, please.”

“Yes, Xander.”

“And make yourself at home, okay? Mi casa es su casa.”

“’Kay.”

Xander thinks for a minute. “Do you know how to use the telephone?”

Shake.

“Let me show you then. And you can call me if you need anything, right?”

Spike follows Xander into the kitchen, Xander trying to ignore the vampire’s nudity. It’s hard to ignore. Xander demonstrates the phone while Spike watches intently, and then Xander writes down the number of the shop and leaves it on the counter.

“Is there anything you need before I go?”

“Could…could I have some paper? And a pen?”

“Sure.” Xander roots around in a drawer and unearths a lined notepad. He hands this to Spike, and points to the pen near the phone. “Will this do?”

“Yes, thank you. Want…want to write things down. In case I, I, I lose my m-memory again.”

Xander nods sadly. He gently runs his fingertips down Spike’s cheek, and then quickly turns and leaves.

 

It feels good to get back to the shop. He and Dan listen to Phish and Jefferson Airplane while they turn and join an elaborate dining set. Then Xander starts on another new order, a big desk made from quarter-sawn oak. They don’t talk much, but that’s nothing new. Dan is a man of few words.

 Spike doesn’t call, and he hopes that’s a good sign.

As they clean up for the night, Dan invites Xander over for spaghetti. Pomegranate always makes enough to feed a small army.

“No thanks, Dan. Actually, I have to get home. I have, er, an old friend visiting.”

“Cool, man. Gonna talk old times, huh?”

“Actually, he’s been sort of in trouble, you know? I’m kinda helping him out.”

“Sure, know how that is. My brother’s been in and outta rehab for years.”

Xander has to suppress a snort.

 

He makes three stops on the way home. First, he goes to Powell’s bookstore on Burnside. He rarely goes there himself, but Willow always spends a lot of time there when she visits. He knew they’d have what he was looking for.

Second, he goes to the shoe store that’s, conveniently enough, right across from Powell’s. Spike can’t stay barefoot if he’s ever going to venture outside.

Finally, there’s Hot Lips, where he picks up a Tex Mex pizza. He thinks Spike might like the chorizo topping.

When he walks into his kitchen, Spike is waiting for him anxiously.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just…yeah.”

“Did you find something to keep you busy today?”

“Read some. Watched some footie.”

Xander plops the pizza box down on the table and throws his other purchases onto the counter. “Want some pizza? I think you’ll like it. It’s spicy.”

Spike nods and goes to the fridge while Xander grabs a couple of plates and puts a couple of slices on each. His stomach rumbles. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Spike comes back to the table with the tool mug in one hand and beer in the other. He hands the beer to Xander, who grins at him.

They’re silent as they eat, both enjoying the food. Spike eats two pieces of pizza and then, after asking permission, picks off and eats the sausage from a third. When most of the pie is gone, Xander leans back in his chair.

“I brought you a couple of things,” he says.

Spike looks surprised.

Xander gets up and retrieves the larger bag, then pulls out the big cardboard box inside. “I’m not sure of the size. I can exchange them if they’re not right.” He hands the box to Spike, who opens it and pulls out a heavy black boot. He looks at Xander, puzzled.

“They’re Docs. You used to wear them.”

“For me?”

“Well, they’re too small for me, and I’m more of a Nike guy anyway. I thought maybe you’d like to go for a walk or something tonight, and it’s too cold and wet for bare feet.”

Spike opens his mouth and then closes it. He swallows audibly and then ducks his head. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Want to see what’s in the other bag?”

Spike looks up sharply. He nods.

Xander loves this. He likes getting presents all right, but he’s honestly always preferred giving them, especially when he knows the recipient will appreciate them.

He gives the Powell’s bag to Spike and waits, leaning back against the counter. Spike puts his hand in the bag and comes back out clutching a book with a black leather cover. He opens it, and then leafs through.

“It’s blank,” he says doubtfully.

“Yeah, it’s a journal. I thought it’d work better than that notepad. For, you know, anything you want to write down.”

Spike looks dumbfounded and then, abruptly, stands. Xander’s alarmed, thinking that Spike’s either going to stomp away in disgust or throw himself at Xander’s feet again. Instead, though, he walks over to Xander, puts his hands on Xander’s shoulders, and says, very softly, “Thank you, Xander.”

Xander decides he’d better do something before he erupts in another unmanly display of tears. “Wanna try out those boots? It’s not too bad out tonight.”

Not surprisingly, Xander ends up having to help Spike get the Docs on and laced. They do fit, though, and it seems to him that the vampire clomps around the kitchen in them with much satisfaction.

He hasn’t thought to buy Spike a coat, and he has to loan him one of his. It’s a brown leather bomber jacket, and of course it’s too big for Spike, but it’ll keep him warm. Xander thinks sadly of the black duster, wondering what its fate had been. He digs out his blue Patagonia fleece for himself.

As they walk out onto the front porch, Spike looks around in undisguised wonder. The neighborhood is nice, nothing fancy, but Xander guesses to someone who has been indoors as long as he can remember it would be awesome.

They walk slowly down the sidewalk, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush together. Spike is twisting his head from side to side, staring at the modest, well-kept houses, the cars in the driveways, the shrubs and gardens that they pass. He looks up at the crescent moon as it peeks through the scattered clouds. He pauses as they near an elm and runs his hands up and down the rough bark. He’s inhaling loudly as they go, and Xander knows the scents must be as exotic to him as everything else.

An orange cat dashes out of a bush in front of them and darts across the street, and Spike jumps wildly backwards. When he recovers, he wraps his arm around Xander’s and they proceed with elbows interlocked.

They can hear the swish and rumble of traffic not too far away, but on this street it’s quiet. Xander likes the sound of Spike’s boots on the pavement. Somewhere, a big dog is barking.

They walk for over an hour, Spike letting Xander lead. They stop sometimes for the vampire to examine something more closely—a light pole layered in handbills, a bus stop, an abandoned basketball against the curb—but mostly they just meander. When they end up back on the front porch, Spike leans in against Xander’s chest and rests his head on his shoulder. Not embracing, just standing close, maybe stealing a little of the human’s warmth.

Back inside, Xander gets a fire going while Spike browses the DVD collection. “This one?” he asks, holding up another Tarantino film. _Reservoir Dogs_.

“Yeah, I like that one. No vampires in it, though. But plenty of blood.”

They are huddled together on the couch again when the doorbell rings.

Spike tenses and looks at Xander, who shrugs.

He walks to the foyer and throws open the door.

It’s Todd.

Todd is wearing a red rain jacket the matches the streak in his hair. He has his hands in the pockets and a hesitant smile on his face.

“Hi, Xan. Sorry I didn’t call, but….Is now a good time to talk?”

Xander wants to say, hell no. But honestly, it’s not like now is any worse than any other time.

“Sure. Come on in.”

Todd steps into the foyer and pushes Xander against the wall, lips locking hard. His hands roam up and down Xander’s biceps, and Xander is still frozen in surprise when Todd stops and pulls away.

“Uhh, hi?” he says, looking around Xander’s shoulder.

Spike is standing in a crouch in front of the couch, hands raised to chest level, clearly prepared to fight or flee.

Fuck.

“Todd, this is—“

But the introduction is interrupted when Spike inhales sharply and then, with an audible grinding of bones, his face shifts.

Fuck fuck.

Todd lurches backwards against the stairway, mouth and eyes wide open. “Holy shit, Xan, that’s a vamp—“

Spike snarls.

Now Todd’s face has shifted as well, revealing several rows of impressively sharp teeth. He hisses.

Fuck fuck fuck!

The demons take a step towards each other and then—

“STOP!!”

Xander holds his hands up, an open palm facing toward each of the creatures. “No fighting here! Absolutely no bloodshed in my house!

“Todd, this is Spike the VAMPIRE, who’s sort of an old friend. Spike, this is Todd the DEMON, who’s a newish friend. And nobody’s going to eat anyone else, okay?”

Spike and Todd eye each other warily, but they both relax a bit.

 Xander takes a deep breath. “I think I’d be a lot happier if you both changed your faces back right now.” Spike lets his face melt back, but he still appears distressed. Todd morphs from scales back to skin, too.

“I think I need to do some explaining. Do you two think you can sit in the living room together without using your fangs?”

They both nod, and Xander’s not sure which of the three of them is the most shaken. Slightly dazedly, Todd allows Xander to pull off his jacket. Xander hangs it on the stair post, then takes Todd’s hand and leads him to one of the recliners. He plans to sit Spike on the other one, but Spike seems so anxious when he moves away that he pulls the vampire over to sit next to him on the couch.

They all look at each other, and then Todd and Spike look at Xander. Okay. Explanation time.

He turns to Spike first. He sees that, although the vampire clearly wants to be close to him, he’s cringing fearfully away.

“Are you okay?”

Spike looks down at his hands, which are folded in his lap. “Sorry,” he says, barely audibly.

Christ.

“It’s fine. You were just scared. No harm done, right, Todd?”

Todd’s eyes are round, but he dips his chin. “Uhh, no, I guess not.”

Spike mumbles, “You won’t use the b-box?”

“Spike. I will not use the box under any circumstances. Ever. I’d smash the fucking thing to bits if I wasn’t afraid it might screw up the chip. Besides, you didn’t do anything that bad. Just…spooked Todd a little.”

Spike is squeezing his hands together so tightly that Xander can almost hear the bones creak. “My face….”

“What about your face?”

“Changed it. Without permission.”

“Spike, it’s your face. You don’t need my permission to change it. If you want to go for the bumpy fangy look, that’s fine. I just thought we’d all be a little calmer if we stuck to our human faces.”

Spike pulls in a long breath and lets it out. His tension eases a bit.

Todd has been following this conversation with his brow furrowed. “Xander, what—“

“Just a sec, okay, Todd? I promise I’ll get to you.” He gives Todd a pleading look and Todd nods a little and settles back in his chair.

“Spike, Todd is a Stadnent demon, and he’s my good friend. We’ve been...dating.”

Now Spike’s the one with the furrowed brow. “You date demons? Thought you killed them.”

“I do. And I actually didn’t know Todd was a demon when we first.…But then I found out. And he’s not the first demon I’ve gone out with. Definitely not the scariest, either.”

“So you two are…what?”

Xander glances uneasily at Todd. “That’s sort of, uh, unclear. I was supposed to get my head together… and then, um.” Yeah, this was going well.

He turns and faces the chair. “Todd, I’ve known Spike since I was sixteen.”

“And you knew he was a vampire?”

“Yeah. First time we met he almost ate me. Umm—in a literal, vampirey sense, not….So, anyway, yeah.” Spike looks up sharply at this, then back down at his hands.

“What’s he doing here, then?” Todd asks.

“He’s…staying with me for a little while.”

“He’s a _houseguest_? Xander, you can’t have a vampire for a houseguest!”

“He’s not going to hurt me, Todd. He can’t, actually.”

“You think you’re such a great demon fighter that—“

“No, that’s not it. Although I’ve dusted my share of vamps over the years. Sorry, Spike. No offense.”

Todd shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

Xander sighs. “It’s a long story.” And then he tells Todd everything—his days in the Army, his mostly involuntary service for the government, the Initiative and its plans for vampires. He doesn’t go into too much detail about what’s happened to Spike, but he conveys the basics about the wipe and the chip. Maybe Todd can read between the lines, though, or maybe it’s the venom in Xander’s voice when he talks about the Initiative, because he’s soon staring at Spike with a mixture of horror and pity.

It’s difficult for Spike to have to listen to this, too. As Xander speaks, he never looks up, but he scoots gradually closer and closer until he’s practically sitting in the man’s lap.

Xander feels drained by the time he’s finished, and Todd is pale and a little shocky-looking. Xander gently dislodges Spike and stands. “I could really, really go for some numbing alcohol right now. Todd?”

Todd nods absently and Xander turns and looks at Spike with concern. The vampire is folded in on himself. “Spike? Can I heat you a mug?” Spike looks up and nods gratefully. Xander has a momentary concern about leaving the two of them alone in the room, but he figures imminent violence is unlikely.

In fact, when he returns with the drinks, it doesn’t look like either of them has moved at all. He hands Todd a bottle, then sits next to Spike, who immediately presses tightly against him again. Spike’s hand with the mug in it is shaking badly, and Xander steadies it for him so he can take a deep drink. When Xander looks up, Todd is watching him thoughtfully.

The only sounds are the men swallowing and the fire crackling.

Finally, Todd clears his throat. “Spike…um…I’m really sorry about…before. I wasn’t expecting…you.”

“’S all right,” says Spike in his quiet baritone.

“Xander, what are you planning to do now? I mean, you can’t…you’re not taking him back there, are you?”

“Jesus, no!” Spike sighs when he hears this, and lets his head fall against Xander’s shoulder. Xander wraps his arm around the vampire. “But they won’t let me keep him long. And he has this tracking thing in him somewhere, so I can’t hide him away. But, but, shit! I’ll think of something. I have to.”

Spike turns his head so that he’s looking at Xander.

“Said you’d dust me.”

“Yeah, if it comes down to it, I will. But it won’t.” He takes another sip. “I’ll think of something,” he repeats.

There’s a long pause, and then Todd says, “Xan, could we maybe speak in private?”

“Yeah, sure.” He thinks about vampire hearing. “Let’s, uh, go out to the garage. Spike, is that okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll have some more blood, yeah?”

“Okay. Good.”

All three get up and walk into the kitchen. Spike heads for the fridge while the other two walk out the door. When they get to the garage, Xander pulls out a stool and a heavy wooden crate. He sits on the crate and gestures Todd onto the stool.

“Todd, I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything about this. It’s just…I wasn’t sure how to explain on a voice message.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I should’ve called before I came over.”

Xander waves at this dismissively.

Todd laughs a little. “This wasn’t exactly something I expected.”

“Yeah, me either, buddy.”

“Here I was, unsure about whether you could handle a demon boyfriend, and then you end up with a vampire.”

Xander stands up quickly. “Whoa! I’m not _with_ a vampire! He needs help and there’s nowhere else for him to turn. That’s all.”

“Xander, you seem to know a little about Stadnents.”

Xander’s confused by this turn in the conversation. “Um, yeah. Scaly, green, generally not unfriendly. Sometimes definitely friendly.”

Todd smiles at this. “Did you know we’re empaths?”

Xander is stunned. “Empaths?”

“Uh-huh. Not very strong ones, but I can usually get a pretty good feel for other people’s emotions. The strong ones, anyway.”

Xander just stares at Todd, appalled.

“You’re falling for him, Xan. I can tell.”

Xander jumps backward as if he’s been stung. “Falling? Shit! No!” He paces angrily back and forth in the small space. “He’s only been here a few days, and he’s a fucking mess. I’m not falling for him.”

“You’re denying that you care for him?”

“Of course I care about him!” He’s shouting now. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing all this. But I’m not in _love_ with him!”

“Maybe not yet, but I know what I feel. I know what _you_ feel, even if you don’t.”

Xander suddenly collapses back onto the crate and cradles his face in his palms. “Todd, I can’t…This is so fucked up. I was…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Todd stands and walks over to Xander, pulls him up into his arms. “I know, Xan,” he says hoarsely. “It’s not your fault. You’re all heart, you know? It’s what I like best about you. Well, that and that amazing mouth of yours.”

Todd presses his lips against Xander’s, gently this time. Xander opens his mouth and licks at Todd’s soft lips, tastes beer and, mmm, French fries.

The blond pulls his head back a little. “I think I was starting to fall for you, too,” he whispers.

“Todd, I—“

“It’s okay. I hope you find a way to work things out with Spike. You deserve to be happy.” He leans in and kisses Xander again, just a brush of his lips, really, and then he turns and walks out the door.

Xander sits back down. He stays there for a long time.

 

When Xander goes back inside, Spike is curled up on the couch with a book. Xander notices that Todd’s jacket is no longer hanging on the stair post. “Your demon boy gone, then?” Spike asks softly.

“He’s not my demon, Spike. He’s—Shit. I’m beat. I’m going to sleep.”

Wearily, he stalks off to his room. He throws his clothes off and crawls into bed, promising himself he won’t think about anything. And soon enough, he falls asleep.

 

 [Chapter 10b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/4720.html#cutid1)

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)

 

 


	13. Chapter 10b: Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 10b: Falling**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 10b: Falling   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Many thanks to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British! And thank you to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; for the wonderful, not-worksafe illustration!

**It's tomorrow now, so here's another chapter. And I struck the jackpot with another wonderful manip! This one's by [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)Thank you!! **

***Today's chapter is another 2-parter***   
  
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

             Spike’s screaming wakes him again.

_I can’t do this_, he thinks to himself. _He’s a vampire, not a child. Not my lover_. He jams a pillow over his head, but it doesn’t begin to drown out the terrible noise.

After a long time, the shrieking dies out. Thank God, he thinks. But then his ears catch a different sound, much quieter but no less distressing.

Sobbing.

Spike is wailing now in anguish rather than fear, and Xander can’t stand it anymore.

He gets up, walks down the hall, opens the door to Spike’s room. The vampire is in his usual corner, curled into an unbelievably small ball, his entire body shaking with the force of his cries.

Xander’s heart breaks.

He walks over and crouches down next to Spike, gently rubbing circles on the quaking shoulders and back.

“I’m sorry, Spike. I’m sorry. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Spike’s voice is barely audible. “Sorry. So sorry. So sodding weak and scared. No kind of a vampire. No kind of a _man_. I’m sorry, Xan.”

Xander rests his forehead on the cold skin next to Spike’s spine and gathers his arms around Spike’s body.

“ You’ve been through hell so long, and you’ve been here just a few days. You’re really strong, baby. Give yourself a little time.”

“Can’t. No, no time. No time for me.”

Xander feels his tears running onto Spike’s back, and how many times has he cried lately? He’s not usually a crying kind of guy. “We’ll find you time, Spike. _I’ll_ find you time. I’m not giving up on you.”

Spike stills and then suddenly unfolds, pushing Xander roughly off of himself. When he turns to look at Xander his face has changed, and the eyes flashing at Xander are yellow and feral. “I’m a monster, Xander. Don’t deserve you. Don’t—“

“You don’t deserve what those bastards did to you!” Xander’s voice breaks when he says this. “_They’re_ the monsters.”

He raises his hand and touches it to the vampire’s heavy brows. Spike flinches back, but Xander doesn’t stop. He smoothes over Spike’s eyebrows, wondering at the scar there. He charts the tear tracks with his fingertips. He traces the sharp cheekbones, then runs his thumb along the lips. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes.

Spike’s eyes widen and then he is reaching out, too, cupping Xander’s face with his palm and softly stroking the length of the scar. “Demon?”

“Kleynach,” Xander says. He turns his head slightly and takes Spike’s thumb into his mouth. He sucks on it and Spike hisses. Then he gently pulls away enough to kiss Spike’s palm. Spike lets his hand drop, and at the same time, his face melts back to its more familiar planes.

Xander realizes they’re both sagging with exhaustion.

“Spike, come to bed with me, please. To sleep. My bed. It’s bigger.”

Spike nods and he and Xander stand. Xander takes his hand and leads him back to the other bedroom. Spike hesitates for just a moment and then crawls into bed with him. As if it’s already an old habit they burrow together, Xander behind Spike with his arms wrapped around the vampire’s torso.

Xander rubs his cheek against the soft stubble on the back of Spike’s skull. “I need some time, too, Spike,” he whispers. “I’m…really confused. But for now, I’d really like it if you’d share my bed every night.”

In answer, Spike moves even closer against him. “Warmer this way,” he says, and Xander marvels that Spike seems to have found a trace of his sense of humor.

 

It’s strange, but they fall into a routine over the next two weeks. Xander goes to work while Spike stays home and reads, writes in his journal. Watches tv. They share dinner and then they go for long walks, even if it’s raining. Sometimes they walk over the Hawthorne Bridge and wander around downtown, Spike staring up at the tall buildings in amazement. The few other late-night wanderers give the muscular, scarred man and the pale, intense one a wide berth. After they return to the yellow bungalow, they watch movies until they are ready to climb into Xander’s big bed.

Xander continues to help Spike shower, more because they both enjoy it than because it’s necessary, and he usually ends up stroking the vampire to completion. He dodges Spike’s attempts to reciprocate, though.

Bit by tiny bit, more of Spike emerges. He smiles more and sometimes laughs. They both discover that, while he still doesn’t remember anything about himself before the wipe, his brain is a pretty impressive storehouse of knowledge. Spike tries to teach Xander to play chess, but Xander has no patience for it. While Spike is gaining more confidence, he’s still happiest when he’s close to Xander, and seems to crave physical contact with Xander’s body. Xander doesn’t mind.

Xander talks little about his past or Spike’s. His own is too painful, and he really doesn’t know that much about Spike’s history. He talks about Willow, though, pointing out her picture atop his dresser.

Willow calls several times. First to give Xander her flight information, and after, he thinks, to make sure Spike hasn’t killed him. She pretends not to hear the desperation in Xander’s voice when he begs her to find out how to help Spike.

Giles calls, too, to explain that it’s taken him some time to unearth the diaries Xander wanted. They’d been misfiled in storage, apparently. But now they’re found, and Giles has mailed copies to Oregon. They should arrive within a few weeks. Giles and Xander have a pleasant conversation this time, catching up a little on each other’s lives. Giles shocks Xander by telling him he’s recently become engaged to be married to a woman named Jane Monroe, a curator for the British Museum. Xander doesn’t tell him about the vampire in residence, however.

And Shales calls, twice, to check on the progress of the “test.” Xander is able to fool the man, but it’s clear he won’t be put off for long. Xander is so agitated after each of these calls that he goes for a long, punishing run, not returning home until his muscles are shaking from fatigue. When he gets home the second time, Spike has drawn him a hot bath and insists on massaging the soreness out of his legs.

Both of them are getting increasingly restless, and Xander knows that staying essentially housebound must be barely tolerable to a vampire. So one evening as they are finishing their dinners, he says, “Spike, are you up for a little more interaction with humans tonight?”

Spike nods carefully. “Be nice to get out a bit, yeah?”

So Xander leads Spike down to Morrison Street and over the bridge, then up Burnside to Powell’s. Spike roams happily among the enormous rooms full of books, now and then throwing one into the basket that Xander is dutifully dragging. Xander is almost successful at hiding his smile when the vampire shows a particular interest in the poetry section. It’s a weeknight and the store isn’t particularly crowded. None of the other shoppers take any notice of them, and Spike doesn’t seem too uncomfortable in their presence. When the basket is nearly full Xander has coffee in the café while Spike sorts greedily though his stack, and then they return to browsing until the store closes at eleven.

Xander decides Spike can carry his own heavy books the couple of miles back home.

Spike is happy as they walk back down Burnside, almost bouncing, in fact. He has his big paper sack in one arm, and his other is wrapped around Xander. Xander’s arm is around Spike, too, and he’s grinning from ear to ear at the…well, the _life_ the vampire is showing tonight. He leans his head over so he can breathe in Spike’s scent—leather from the bomber jacket he’s now adopted, basil and lemongrass from the Thai food they’d had for dinner, and a coppery-citrus tang that is just him. Spike’s hair has grown out a bit, starting to form little curls, and Xander rubs his cheek into the softness of it. Spike turns and looks at him with sparkling azure eyes, and Xander thinks for the first time, that’s _my_ vampire.

They pass a homeless man slumped in a doorway. The man stirs a bit, and Spike suddenly freezes. “Tenrulra, luv,” he whispers in Xander’s ear.

Xander is so startled by the endearment that the first word doesn’t register at first. By the time it has, the man has lurched up from the ground is staggering toward them, arms outstretched, _talons_ outstretched, because of course it’s not a man at all.

Spike drops the bag and Xander curses. Tenrulra demons are nasty shits, much stronger than humans and equipped with paralyzing saliva besides. They like to disable their victims, drag them someplace cozy, and then slowly feast on their entrails. And, idiot that he is, Xander hadn’t thought to bring a weapon with him tonight, other than the trusty stake he’s carried since he was a teenager. If he gets close enough to a Tenrulra to use a stake, he’s already dead.

The demon screeches out a noise something like fingernails on a chalkboard and draws back its arm for a strike. Suddenly, Spike shoves Xander away, but then he’s driven to his knees with pain from the chip. Xander stumbles on the uneven sidewalk and would surely have become dinner, except that the demon’s become distracted by what appears to be a helpless human moaning near its feet. It slashes downwards, catching Spike across the chest, and Spike howls. Xander is looking around, desperate for anything he can use as a weapon.

But now Spike has rolled to his feet. The Tenrulra realizes its mistake as Spike morphs to his demon face and roars ferociously. The creatures aren’t very bright, though, and it moves in for another blow. Spike is faster. He bends down and then runs forward, planting his head in the middle of its chest and driving it back against the wall of the building.

The demon spits at Spike, a huge clot of greenish slime that covers the vampire’s face and chest. Xander, still standing by helplessly, hopes that Tenrulra venom is ineffective against the undead.

Spike has his hands around the monster’s neck and is simultaneously choking it and smashing its head into the brick. It’s digging its talons at Spike, but the thick jacket seems to protecting him from the worst of it.

Xander spies a rusty shopping cart halfway up the block. He sprints over and then pushes it back as fast as it will go. He turns it around so that the handle end is facing the demon, and then rams it into its side, taking care not to ram Spike as well.

The demon topples over and Spike lands on top, hands still wrapped around its throat. Its struggles have slowed by now and its flailing has become unfocussed. Spike lifts its upper body by the neck, then lets go with one hand and sticks two fingers in one of its eyes. As the Tenrulra screams horribly, Spike uses this grip to bash its head into the pavement, hard.

The Tenrulra shudders and then disappears.

Xander rushes over to help Spike off of his knees.

 “Mind the goo, Xan, it’s—“

“Poison. I know. Are you okay, Spike?”

Spike shifts his face back. He looks down at his tattered, scum-covered chest, then he looks up at Xander. And grins. “Think you’ll have to carry the books, luv.”

 

Wary of the venom, Spike refuses to let Xander support him as he walks, even though he’s staggering and clearly in pain. Just a few blocks along, and Xander has no idea how they’ll manage another two miles. Fortunately, he’s able to wave down a taxi that passes by. The driver initially glares at the blood and mess all over Spike and refuses to let him in the cab. Xander produces two fifty dollar bills, though, and the driver changes his mind. After Spike has eased into the backseat, Xander tells the cabbie that his friend had a seizure and fell, hurting himself in the process. The driver appears extremely skeptical about this, but he gets them home.

In the house, Spike laboriously strips off the ruined clothes and stuffs them into a large plastic garbage bag, while Xander heats a big mug of blood. When Xander gets back from taking the bag out to the trash can, and sees the vampire leaning against the stove, naked and shivering, he realizes how badly he’s injured. There are many gashes on his back and sides, but none look too serious. However, the four parallel furrows across his chest are so deep that Xander can see muscle tissue, and he’s pretty sure he sees rib bone as well.

“Spike, want me to run you a bath?”

Spike swallows the last of the blood and groans. “Shower first, luv. Want to get this shite off me before it gets on you. Then a bath, yeah?”

Xander nods and heads off to get the water hot. He watches Spike stagger in and his arms itch to help, but Spike manages to get into the tub himself. He groans and nearly collapses when the stinging water hits his wounds, but he’s able to rinse off quickly.

The second Spike allows him, Xander darts forward to scoop the soaking body into his arms. He half lifts Spike and sets him gently on the toilet, then drapes a big towel over his shoulders while he fills the tub. “You want it hot, or will that hurt too much?”

“Hot as you can get it, please.”

Soon Spike is settled in the tub, his head laid back on a folded towel and his eyes closed. Xander finds a washcloth and dabs gently at his face, then at each of the lacerations on his front. Spike winces but doesn’t otherwise react.

“Want me to get you more blood?”

Spike nods, and Xander is back in minutes with the tool mug brimming full. He supports Spike’s shoulders so he can sit forward a little and drink. When the cup is empty, Spike falls back against the edge of the tub. Xander kneels on the bathmat, fascinated at the way the torn flesh is healing almost right before his eyes.

Suddenly, Spike laughs, a rare and precious sound.

“What?”

“Shopping trolley.”

Xander wonders if Spike has hurt his head, too. “Huh?”

“Shopping trolley. You attacked the Tenrulra with a shopping trolley.”

“Well, it helped, didn’t it?”

Spike laughs again.

“You saved my life tonight, Spike.”

Spike cracks open his eyes. “Was just doing like I was trained.”

“You could have let the Tenrulra get me. You could’ve just turned and run.”

“Run where, then? Need you, Xander.” He opens his eyes wide now, looks earnestly at Xander. “_Want_ you.” Then he turns his head and looks away. “I know you don’t want me, though.”

Xander is nearly speechless. “How—how can you say that? You can smell me, can’t you? Feel me against you when we’re in bed?”

“That’s just…just…reflex. Especially after I scared your demon boy away. You don’t want _me_.”

“Jesus, Spike!” Xander falls back on his butt, rests one elbow on the edge of the tub, and leans his head into that hand. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me not to jump your bones a million times a day?”

Spike turns his head back. “But you didn’t do it, did you? Can’t abide a filthy thing like me.”

Xander springs back up on his knees and leans over until his face is just inches from Spike’s. “If I thought you were filthy, would I do this?” And he inches forward until his lips are touching Spike’s, gentle as a breeze. Slowly, he peppers little butterfly kisses across Spike’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, on the points of his cheekbones, along the lines of his jaw. Then he pulls back. Spike is staring at him in astonishment.

Xander dips a hand in the tub. “The water’s getting cold. Let’s get you into bed.”

Spike doesn’t say anything as he helps him out of the tub and carefully pats him dry with the softest towel he can find. Xander brushes his teeth and then lets Spike lean on his arm as they make the short walk to the bedroom. As Spike climbs under the covers, Xander strips down to his boxers, then he gets in, too.

They settle into their usual position. Spike smells good, like the vanilla soap he likes so much. Xander feels himself getting hard, and Spike helps things along by undulating his ass against Xander in a very nice way.

Xander starts to rub his hands over Spike’s biceps, but stops suddenly when he brushes against one of the wounds. Spike wiggles again. “Xan…please.”

“You’re hurt, Spike.”

“Please. I need…need you. Now. Please.” And he presses back once more against Xander’s interested cock.

Xander is only human.

He lets one of his hands slide down Spike’s chest, skittering carefully around the open sores, then across the firm belly. He grasps Spike’s cock, feels that Spike is already hard and eager. Spike moans. His other hand toys with Spike’s nipple, brushing lightly over the erect tip, then squeezing and rolling it between his fingers. He mouths the back of Spike’s neck above the collar, moist, warm impressions where his hairline begins. He licks the collar’s edge, hating the taste of the metal, but wondering if that will soothe the irritated skin.

Spike turns his head toward Xander a little, and now Xander snuffles around his ear, tickling little licks inside the edge of the delicate shell.

Spike brings his arm back and pushes it against Xander’s hip, nudging their bodies even closer together. His fingers catch on the waistband of Xander’s boxers. “Off, please. Want you closer.”

Xander pulls his hands away from Spike, who whines a little at the loss, and skims off his clothes. He quickly returns back to where they were, slowly stroking Spike’s hard length. Now, though, there’s no fabric between them, and, as Spike rocks into his hand, Xander’s already-slick cock slides back and forth in the vampire’s cleft.

One particularly energetic thrust results in an odd sensation against Xander’s crown. It takes him a moment to realize what it is: the small chains securing the plug inside Spike.

“God, Spike, the plug. I forgot about the goddamn plug. Can I take it out?”

Spike moans again in response. “Yeah, out, Xan, please,” he breathes.

Xander bears his hand against Spike’s hip and Spike rolls onto his belly, then folds his knees up underneath himself. Xander throws off the covers and groans at the sight before him. He moves around until he’s behind Spike and massages the smooth, milky globes in front of him.

On impulse, he dips down and plants a wet kiss on each cheek, then spreads them with his hands and licks from the base of Spike’s tailbone to the edge of the plug. Spike jerks as if in surprise, and then immediately pushes back.

It takes Xander a few moments of fumbling to undo the chain, and by the time he does, Spike is practically thrumming with urgency. Delicately, he pokes his tongue into the rosy pucker. Spike jerks again and cries out.

Xander reaches underneath and grasps Spike’s cock, then pumps it firmly as he moves his tongue in and out. Spike is moving his hips into the twin sensations, but then he freezes.

Xander lifts his head, alarmed. “Spike, are you okay?” God, what if he’s traumatized him even worse?

“Want you in me, Xander, now.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want—“

“Please? Make me feel you, not….”

It sounds like a sob, but Spike’s moving again, begging with his body.

“Yeah, okay. Let me just….” And Xander scootches around to the side of the bed and fumbles in the nightstand drawer until he finds some lube.

Spike is still on his knees, but Xander wants to see his face for this. He tugs at Spike’s shoulders until Spike is flat on his back. His pupils are dilated and his lower lip hangs open a bit. Xander swoops down and takes it in his mouth, sucks on it, bites it, and Spike wraps his arms around the man.

Xander repositions himself on top of the vampire, legs on top of legs, leaking cocks perfectly aligned. He pushes down against Spike at the same time as he presses their mouths together. Spike lifts his hips and grabs Xander’s ass. The move back and forth together, moaning into each other’s mouths as the delicious friction sends tingles throughout Xander’s body.

With a gasp, Spike turns his head, breaking the kiss. “In me, please, in me, please,” he chants. He spreads his legs around Xander and then bends his knees, opening himself up, offering.

Xander reaches down and presses a slippery finger against Spike’s quivering hole and then, gently, in. Spike arches his back and mewls and Xander responds by latching his mouth onto a nipple, sucking and nibbling and moving his finger in and out as Spike writhes beneath him.

He glances up at Spike’s wide eyes, then carefully lines his cock up against Spike’s ass, cursing softly when the dangling plug gets in the way. But then he gets it right, and he feels the slick little opening right against the sensitive tip of his cock. Slowly, slowly, he pushes, and Spike is pushing back, and then he’s in and Spike cries out again.

He eases his way into the cool channel. “God, Spike, you’re so fucking tight,” he groans. And then he stills, because if he moves one little bit this is all going to be over.

Spike stills, too, panting as hard as Xander, glassy eyes staring up at the man in amazement. “Good…good…so good in me,” is all he can manage.

But what’s the point of talking now anyway? Xander covers Spike’s mouth with his own and then invades the beautiful mouth with his tongue. The rest of their bodies are motionless while Xander touches the tip of his tongue to the back of Spike’s teeth, then slides it in and out, in and out, and then their hips are moving, too, the movement below echoing the thrusting above.

Spike’s rigid cock is stabbing into Xander’s belly with every plunge, painting both of them with cold fluid. He wraps his legs around Xander, and his heels dig into Xander’s ass.

Now Xander is pounding in hard, Spike scrabbling for a handhold on the headboard as the mattress creaks and shakes.

They’re still kissing, and Xander has lost all track of what’s happening with his body. He feels like he’s one enormous nerve cell being stimulated again and again.

Spike is groaning now into Xander’s mouth, and Xander is swallowing those noises like candy. His hips are pistoning almost beyond his control and Spike is slamming right back into them. It’s terrifically noisy, with the bedsprings squealing and the bed frame groaning and their sweaty torsos slapping together and Xander is running his hands through Spike’s hair and cupping his face and their eyes are wide open and Spike jerks and Xander feels the vampire’s cock spasm and his come spurt and pool between their bodies and feels Spike clamp around him and now his cock is exploding and so is his head and oh fuck it’s so good oh fuck oh fuck.

Their rhythm slows, and Xander finally breaks the kiss, only to press his lips over and over against Spike’s extended neck and heaving, healing chest and quivering, wet belly. Spike whimpers when Xander pulls out his softening cock, but then Xander lays his head on Spike’s taut abdomen, ignoring the stickiness of it. He toys gently with Spike’s balls and nearly flaccid penis, pulls lightly on the regrown curls at Spike’s groin. Spike gradually calms his breathing and pets Xander’s mussed hair, teasing out the tangles with his fingertips.

Xander wants to fall asleep just like this. But first, he lifts himself out of bed and pads into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with a tool in his hands: a wire cutter. Spike looks at him curiously.

“Spread your legs for me, please, baby.”

And without a trace of apprehension Spike does. Xander kneels at the foot of the bed and carefully cuts the chain that attaches the plug to the piercing in Spike’s perineum. He hands the plug to Spike, who grimaces and tosses it onto the floor. Xander throws down the wire cutters and gives a series of little kisses around Spike’s stretched opening.

He can see Spike start to harden again, and even feels his own cock twitch. But he’s exhausted and Spike is still recovering from the fight. Xander scoots back up the bed and pulls the covers up over both of them. Spike rolls over until he is sprawled over most of Xander’s body. Xander lightly, lightly strokes the soft skin of his vampire’s lower back until both of them are asleep.

 

When Xander opens his eyes, Spike is watching him, smiling widely. And hasn’t his life gotten strange when waking up with a vampire staring at him is a _good_ thing. A very good thing.

He smiles back, and then catches sight of the alarm clock. “Crap,” he says. “I need to get to the shop.”

“You sure?” Spike asks, reaching down and squeezing Xander’s cock.

Xander deftly but regretfully slides out of Spike’s grasp and out of the bed. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “But the day will go fast and then it’ll be tonight and I’ll be home again with you.”

Spike sighs and yanks the comforter up to his chin. “The day won’t go fast.”

Xander leans down to kiss his nose but then scoots away again before the vampire can catch him.

He whistles in the shower.

He whistles when the bridge is up for a passing boat and he spends 15 minutes stuck on the approach.

He whistles when he gets to work, and Dan looks at him curiously but doesn’t ask.

He whistles while he sweeps up, and then while he gets caught in traffic on the way home, and then while he has to wait almost half an hour for take-out at the packed Indian place.

He whistles while he walks in through the kitchen door.

He stops when Spike isn’t there to greet him.

Spike always hears his truck and waits for him in the kitchen, hugging and nuzzling him almost before he steps inside. Today, the kitchen’s empty.

He puts the food bags down on the counter and looks through the archway into the living room. It’s quiet. No soccer or Wii.

He looks in the bedroom. The bed is mussed but empty.

The spare room, unused since Spike moved into his, is empty, too.

Nobody’s in the bathroom.

He pounds up the stairs, thinking of the windows he still hasn’t covered up there, but the dust looks undisturbed, and there’s nothing up there but boxes.

He runs out to the garage, but it’s locked, and when he gets the door open, there’s nobody there, either.

He sprints back into the house and yells, “Spike!”

But nobody answers.

Spike is gone.

[Chapter 11](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/5046.html#cutid1)  
 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
 


	14. Chapter 11: Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 11: Nightmare**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 11: Nightmare   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. If the first few paragraphs squick you, you might want to skip this one. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

 

This chapter's going up a bit early because I have to be somewhere early in the am. Hey, it's tomorrow for most of you already anyway. :-)

I wanted to give a big thank you to all of you who have been leaving me such kind comments. Since this is my first fanfic, it's valuable to know I'm on the right track! Gives me motivation to write the sequel, too. And a special thanks to whomever nommed me for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/forbiddenawards/profile)[**forbiddenawards**](http://community.livejournal.com/forbiddenawards/)&lt;/lj&gt; ! You made my day.

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

             He’s having another nightmare.

Automatically, he reaches out for the comfort of the warm body next to him—and discovers he can’t move his arm.

His head feels stuffed with cotton wool and it takes him several minutes to work up enough coordination to open his eyes.

White.

White tile.

He’s back in the examination room.

Gripped in panic, he tries to scream, but his mouth is distorted and obstructed by the hard metal of the ball gag. He tries to move, but he’s once again strapped to the exam table, legs positioned firmly in the stirrups, even his head held immobile. He changes to his demon face and pulls against the restraints so hard that they leave deep, bleeding gashes, but he cannot loosen them at all. Still, he struggles against them, his mind a roaring tempest of terror and rage.

No no no no no no no no no!!!

Xander promised. He _promised_!

He’s strained so hard that the metal bands on his wrists have dug in all the way to the bone, but he doesn’t feel any pain yet. Eventually, though, his burst of frantic energy dissipates and his muscles relax. Breathing heavily through his nose, he tries to get his bearings.

The feel of the metal against his skin tells him that he is naked. The cold air on his scalp means his head’s been shaved again. He can’t see his groin to tell if the razor has been down there as well.

He can see very little of the room aside from the ceiling and tops of the walls, but he gradually notices a subtle difference. While still large, the room seems smaller than the exam room he recalls. The smell is different, too. Instead of chemicals, he smells dirt and rot.

He hears nothing aside from the buzz of the lights and the rasp of his own breath.

He tries to shake his head clear of the confusion, but of course he can’t. Instead, he makes virtually the only movement he can: he blinks his eyes rapidly. Slowly, a memory appears and starts to clarify.

 

_He’s reclining on the couch, reading one of the books Xander had bought him the night before. He’d plucked it off a display at the store, and he thinks now it was a very good choice—a nonfiction tale of a serial killer and the Chicago World’s Fair._

_Really, though, he’s having trouble concentrating on the thing because his mind keeps wandering back to the previous evening. How good it had felt to fight the Tenrulra, to choose a course of  action like that without being ordered to, to help Xander. And it had felt even better later, when Xander was in him, on him, around him. Not using him—loving him. Somehow, for the first time he really felt like his body was his._

_He hears a truck pull up and park in front of the house, but doesn’t pay it much mind. It’s too early for Xander to be home, and besides, Xander parks in the driveway. Probably someone visiting the people next door, or maybe one of the many people who drive into this neighborhood and become lost._

_A few minutes later, though, he hears a noise in the kitchen. He puts down his book and goes to investigate._

_Just as he enters the kitchen, two men burst through the door. Humans. He doesn’t even have to see one of the men’s faces to recognize him—he knows his scent. Too bloody well. The other man is a stranger._

_He turns to run, desperately thinking about how he can evade these men now, when sundown is hours away. But there’s popping noise, and a sudden stinging in his shoulder. He dashes back into the living room, but he’s only run a few steps when his vision starts to gray. His legs turn to rubber and he collapses helplessly to the floor. He hears bootsteps coming toward him._

 

Bootsteps echo in the hallway and then the door is flung open. The two men come to his side and smile down at him.

The stranger is huge—big and broad—and handsome in an aw-shucks kind of way. He’s wearing a checked flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, and almost looks like he just stepped off the farm. His eyes, though. His eyes scare Spike. This is a man who has jumped off the cliffs of insanity and is still enjoying the fall.

The other man wears a navy jumper, and it’s a little disconcerting to see him in something other than fatigues. As always, the whiskers on his chin do little to hide his many blemishes and pockmarks.

“Hi, Seventeen,” Turner says sweetly. “Did you enjoy your vacation?”

He lightly rubs the back of his fingertips across Spike’s cheekbone, then glides his thumb along Spike’s bottom lip. His hand trails down Spike’s neck to his chest and traces the edges of the nearly-healed talon marks. Then he grasps Spike’s nipple and gives it a vicious, twisting pinch. Spike jerks in his bonds.

“Did you miss me, slut?”

Now the hand is wrapped around Spike’s bollocks, and he tries to steel himself for what he knows will come next. Still, he can’t help groaning when Turner squeezes hard.

“You were gone such a short time and already you’ve forgotten your lessons, haven’t you, you stupid shit? What’s the rule about that fucking ugly face?” Spike groans again as Turner squeezes even harder. He lets his face melt back to human.

“Oh, that’s much better. My pretty little bitch.” And he squeezes so hard that Spike’s afraid something will rupture. “I wonder what else we’ll have to retrain you?”

The big man has continued grinning amiably at him, like Spike is a little old lady he’s going to help across the street. Without changing his expression he places his big paw over Spike’s face and compresses his nose. Spike automatically starts fighting for air. Only when his chest has completely stopped its futile spasms does the man lift his hand away. When Spike sucks a deep lungful through his nostrils, the man laughs delightedly.

Turner taps his finger against Spike’s sphincter, making Spike jerk a little. “Uh-oh. Looks like you lost your plug. Guess we’ll have to find something bigger this time.” He taps again and then runs his hands up and down Spike’s spread thighs. “But first, Seventeen, let’s show Finn here something fun, okay?” He reaches behind him to his back pocket, and when Spike sees the item in his hand, he nearly panics again.

It’s the gray box.

“Wanna see, Finn?”

Finn nods happily.

Turner presses the button.

Spike convulses against the restraints and screams.

Finn is laughing again. “Let me have a try,” he says, and Turner passes the box to him. He presses the button, too, and just as the pain subsides, does it again. And again.

Spike has lost track of everything but the waves of searing agony crashing nonstop through his head. By the time he’s able to look blearily at his tormenters, he realizes that the odd bleating noise he’s hearing is coming from his throat. He tries to stop it and can’t.

Then there’s a new pain, this time a ripping sensation in his innards, and he suddenly realizes that Finn has rammed his cock into him and is pounding away with that same eerie smile on his face. The controller is on Spike’s belly. The man takes it, and still thrusting savagely, activates it. Spike’s vision dims, and he hopes he’s going to lose consciousness, but Turner slaps him and then Finn grunts and comes, his warm seed flooding Spike’s torn inner passage.

Finn tosses the box to Turner and pulls out.

Turner takes his place and soon he’s driving into Spike, too, but Spike barely feels it. He’s numb.

When Turner is finished with him, he walks out of Spike’s sight for a moment. When he returns to stand between Spike’s legs again, he shows him what he has in his hand. A scalpel.

With a wicked grin, he uses one hand to push back Spike’s foreskin, and then he presses the tip into the slit of Spike’s cock. Spike’s eyes become huge and he makes a horrible choking sound. “What do you think, Finn? Should I give it a bit of a circumcision?”

Finn giggles as Turner runs the blade shallowly down the bottom of Spike’s cock, creating a stinging line all the way to the root. Then, without warning, he punches the scalpel into the side of Spike’s scrotum. Spike retches into the gag.

The bigger man comes over and pushes Turner aside, then sticks his blunt index finger into the hole Turner has just made. Then he pulls it out again, and uses it to paint a bloody stripe down the center of Spike’s torso.

He turns to the smaller man. “I’m hungry. Let’s go pick up some burgers.”

Turner shakes his head in wonderment. “Sounds good. Aren’t the Raiders playing tonight?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. I set up a tv. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

They leave abruptly.

Spike stares up at the lights and wonders how long he can bear this.

 

He’s thankful for the lingering pain because it distracts him a bit. Keeps him from asking himself questions.

As the time drags on, though, dismaying thoughts begin to intrude. The worst of them is _why_? Why would Xander do this to him?

He knows the man could never love a soulless monster like him, a defiled creature simultaneously vicious and weak. He’s never been able to fool himself into believing that the two of them could somehow settle permanently into some sort of domestic utopia, with pizza and blood and snogging in front of the telly.

But Xander had treated him with such kindness, such gentleness, such patience. His warm arms and soft words have soothed away so much of Spike’s trauma. And then there was last night. Not just the shagging, although that was wonderful, but the bookstore and the careful tending in the bath. He’d thought that Xander truly cared for him.

He’d come to hope for a quick, peaceful final death at the hands of a…friend.

Was it all some sort of elaborate ruse? To what end? If it was supposed to make his suffering greater, it failed. Because, bereaved as he is at losing Xander, and anguished to have been betrayed, he still treasures all the small moments of joy he experienced. He might be able to make it through eternal torture and servitude, might even be able to withstand being sealed in the cell, because he has memories now of the smell of rain and the sound of a newspaper rustling and the feel, oh God, the feel of soft kisses.

Perhaps Xander just hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill Spike, couldn’t even face saying goodbye. Spike can’t believe that. Xander is no coward.

He supposes he’ll have plenty of time to consider this mystery. And others, too. Like, what will they do with him now? Who is this Finn bloke, and where are the other soldier boys? Where is Professor Walsh?

Now, though, he closes his eyes and, in the chill of the room he’s in now, thinks of a roaring fire and heated blood and a big, warm body to enfold him. Even his tears are icy as they trail down his skin.

 

He’s become used to tracking time, to knowing minutes and hours and days, but now he’s lost that as well, and he has no idea how long he’s been affixed to the table when Turner and Finn return. They bring an odd scent of damp earth in with them.

“Brought you presents,” smirks Turner, waving a bag in front of Spike’s face. There’s a loud scraping sound and Spike realizes that Finn has dragged over a stool of some sort to sit on. Finn is beaming sunnily again. The bag rustles as Turner drops it on the floor.

Spike shudders when he sees what Turner is holding. “It’s called the Titan,” the man says. “The package says it’s seventeen inches long and four inches wide, but I didn’t measure it to make sure.” He whacks the rubbery head of the thing against Spike’s cheeks, laughing at Spike’s reflexive blinking. He holds it so Spike can see its base, which is broader than the tip and has small metal loops embedded on two ends and a large ring in the middle. “I made a few mods. I want to make sure you don’t lose this one.”

He walks between Spike’s legs and roughly shoves a finger into Spike’s hole. “You’ve tightened up already. This is gonna hurt.” He removes his finger and presses the huge crown of the thing against Spike. Spike tries to limit the damage by relaxing his muscles, but it’s not enough. When Turner crams the dildo into him, his delicate tissues bruise and split, and his bowels are seized in heavy cramps. By the time Turner has attached the chains that secure it inside him, it feels like there’s a light pole up his arse.

Finn leans over and pets his limp cock, caressing the incision that still has not healed. “It doesn’t seem to like its present,” he says. “Give it another.”

“Okay, but I’ll need a hand with this one.” He leans down for a minute to fish in the bag, and then comes back up holding a thick metal ring with an inset metal ball. He also holds a tool of some kind and a very long, thick needle.

Finn is still stroking him, and now his stokes become more insistent. Spike’s training still holds as he feels his cock becoming thicker and harder. As usual, it does no good for him to will it not to respond. Soon he’s fully erect, and Finn is playing with the foreskin, gliding it roughly back and forth over the corona. Turner ties something tightly around the base and Spike’s balls, then smiles in satisfaction.

“Hold it still for me,” he orders, and Finn does. Spike stops breathing. He squeezes his eyes shut as the needle passes sideways through the center of the glans. Then something thick is pushed through the hole, and after a few moments he feels an odd tugging sensation. “Nice,” says Turner. “Good place to attach its leash.”

Finn yanks on the ring a few times, then gives it a hard, steady pull. Spike tries to raise his hips to move with it, but the straps keep him immobile. When Finn digs his fingernails into the stretched organ, Spike cries out, but of course the gag muffles the sound.

Turner unties the lace.

“One more, you lucky little slut,” he says. “Had to have this one custom made.”

It’s a black leather muzzle. In the center of the inside is a realistically shaped plastic dildo, large, but not as wide as the one in his arse or as long. Turner moves to Spike’s side and taps on the metal ball. “I’m gonna take this out. One little word and I’ll zap you.” He unfastens the strap and removes the gag.

Spike gingerly opens and closes his jaw but remains silent. Then Turner is shoving the plastic cock in his mouth. It stretches him as wide as the ball, and it also presses his tongue against the bottom of his mouth. He gags and chokes, but Turner pushes it in until it’s almost against the back of his throat. Then he locks the muzzle in place with a buckle around Spike’s head and short straps that attach to the ring in Spike’s collar.

“You can go ahead and bite on it if you want. It’s reinforced with metal. Don’t blame me if you end up fangless.”

Spike is stuffed full, top and bottom, and his eyes water from the strain of it.

“That’s all the presents for now. You can thank us later.”

Turner begins unlocking and unbuckling the restraints holding Spike against the table, while Finn toys idly with the ring in his cock. Spike doesn’t dare to move.

As soon the last strap is off , Finn digs his hands into Spike’s side and shoves, sending the vampire tumbling to the ground. He lands hard on his side, jostling the dildo in his arse painfully. The floor is filthy.

“Stand!” orders Turner. And his body has not forgotten to obey, because without thinking he instantly hops to his feet, spreads his legs, and tucks his hands behind his head. Turner comes behind him and cuffs his hands behind his back, then yanks down on the cuffs and uses a short chain to attach them to the ring on the dildo.

Spike has a quick moment to look around the room. It is definitely smaller than the exam room he used to, although it’s otherwise quite similar. However, the tiles here are cracked and falling, black mold grows in the corners, and the metal shelving is askew and rusted. It looks like this room was trashed and abandoned a long time ago.

As Turner had promised, he hooks a leather leash onto Spike’s cock piercing. He gives it a hard snap, nearly pulling Spike off his feet. “C’mon,” he growls.

Spike follows the men out the door. The corridor, too, is damaged and dirty. Many of the doors hang off their hinges; a few have been broken down entirely. The whole place reeks of decay and corruption. He hears nothing other than their echoing footsteps.

The intrusion in his body forces Spike to walk awkwardly, with his legs widely spread, a situation which makes the men snicker. Every step brings a jolt of fresh pain to his battered insides. If he slows too much, Turner gives another yank on the leash.

This hallway is shorter than the ones he’s seen before. He doesn’t understand why this part of the compound is in such poor shape, when the parts he’s seen before were always kept clean and in good order.

They stop and Finn unlocks one of the few intact doors. Spike notices that he uses a regular metal key to do this, and not a card. The room itself is hardly more than a cupboard, and completely bare, apart from a pile of chains in one corner and a number of heavy metal rings set into the concrete floor, walls, and ceiling.

Turner points to the center of the floor. “Kneel.” As soon as Spike does, Turner unhooks the leash and tosses it to Finn. While Finn stands in the open doorway, Turner goes to the corner and pulls out some of the chains. He attaches one of these to the handcuffs, then pulls it taut and links the other end to one of the rings in the wall. Finn hands him two more pairs of cuffs. Turner locks one end of each of these to Spike’s spread ankles, and the other end to rings in the floor. He snaps a second long length on the ring in Spike’s cock, and attaches that one to a wall as well, pulling Spike’s flaccid cock out tightly. A third chain connects the ring in Spike’s collar to a hook about four feet up the wall in front of him.

He steps back and surveys his work.

Spike is caught neatly between the opposing tensions of the fetters. If he allows his body to sway too far forward, he’ll strain his arms and put pressure on the chains keeping the dildo inside of him. But if he moves at all backward, the piercing will tear through the meat of his cock. The chain on his collar keeps his knees at a ninety degree angle and prevents him from settling back on his heels. And he can’t move to either side at all.

Turner nods, apparently satisfied, and walks away. Finn follows him, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. Spike hears the heavy bolt lock, and he’s alone in the dark.

His knees are already starting to sing their protest of the cold, hard floor, and his muscles are getting sore. Every time he relaxes even a bit, though, the collar chokes him and his cock and arse and arms give him warning shots of pain.

 He feels his stomach clench and wonders how long it’s been since he fed.

This room stinks, too, as if something had died and been left to rot.

As his aches and hunger gradually intensify, he finds himself thinking of all the people he must have hurt and killed. He doesn’t know how old he is, but considering that he has rather extensive knowledge of steam locomotives and gas lamps, he suspects he’s been around awhile. He’s undoubtedly been responsible for a great deal of human suffering. So perhaps he deserves every bit of torture and degradation that the Initiative hands his way.

Except—he’s a vampire, a demon. Isn’t it his nature to prey on humans? Can he be blamed if he behaves accordingly?

He shakes his head. No. He has spent the last few weeks in intimate proximity to a human, and he has chosen not to hurt him. True, that monstrous piece of plastic in his head has forced the choice, but he wouldn’t harm Xander even if the chip were removed. Not even now, after Xander has forsaken him. So he _can_ avoid committing violence if he wishes, and therefore he should be held responsible for his actions.

Still, he wonders if he tormented his victims the way these humans torment him. Honestly, he can’t imagine it. He dreams of sinking his fangs into hot flesh, but not of inflicting pain or humiliation for their own sakes.

And none of this matters, does it? Because here he is, bound and on his knees in the freezing, fetid, blackness.

 

He’s in a haze of pain and hunger and exhaustion when the door swings open again. Turner is carrying a leash, which he attaches to Spike’s cock. Finn watches again as Turner begins unfastening the chains. The moment the one in back is off of him, Spike falls forward, the chain on his collar preventing him from landing on his face, but also causing him to virtually hang by his neck. When Turner detaches that one, he does fall all the way, his nose smashing hard into the floor.

Turner unhooks the cuffs on Spike’s ankles and tells him to stand. Stiff as he is, it’s difficult for him to do, especially with his hands still manacled and chained to the dildo. But he manages it, weaving unsteadily as if he might fall again any moment.

Turner picks up the end of the leash and snaps it taut. Finn laughs when Spike jerks his hips forward in response. “C’mon,” Turner barks.

They retrace their previous steps down the ruined hallway. The door to the exam room is open, and Turner drags him inside. “Kneel!” he says, and Spike groans as his tortured knees and leg muscles resume the position he’s been held in for so long. Turner unlocks the manacles, but Spike leaves his hands clasped behind him.

“Hey, Finn. Wanna see it do some tricks first?”

If “tricks” are first, Spike is wondering what’s second. But Turner’s speaking to him now: “Floor!”

“Squat!”

“Back!”

Finn leans against a wall, watching with seeming appreciation while Turner puts Spike through the familiar drill. The giant dildo hurts as he moves around, but it actually feels good to be stretching and moving his cramped body.

He is in Bend position when Finn wanders over. He slaps Spike’s arse a few times with his huge, heavy palm, snickering at the vampire’s attempts to maintain his balance under the blows. The he loops a finger through the large ring in the dildo and rocks the toy in and out as much as the chains allow. Spike grunts as the movement irritates the torn spots inside his body.

“That’s a mighty fine ass,” the big man says. “Would have made a good part for the Adam project. I wonder if that’s what the Professor had planned for Seventeen before it escaped?”

“Aw, man. Forget the Adam project! That thing’s been dead for years. Deader than Seventeen, even,” Turner says, laughing at his own joke.

“The Adam project is what ended my promising career in the military. Kinda makes it hard to forget.” Finn is fondling Spike’s cheeks while they speak, rubbing and pinching. Sometimes he yanks on Spike’s ball sac instead.

“No, dumbfuck. Maggie Walsh ended your promising career in the military. Just like she ended mine. And won’t she be pissed when she finds out her pet vampire is missing?”

Wait, _missing_? What’s he talking about?

Finn yanks another time, so hard this time that Spike’s knees buckle and he falls on his belly. Finn chuckles and kicks him, his enormous boot connecting hard with Spike’s ribs. Spike tries to scramble back up into position, but Finn places his foot on the back of Spike’s neck and pins him in place. For once, Spike is grateful for the collar, as it keeps Finn from crushing his vertebrae.

Turner walks closer. “Maybe we should take some pictures, let the bitch see what her pet’s up to.”

Finn abruptly raises his foot and then there’s a loud _smack_.

Turner yells, “What the _fuck_, man?!”

Spike hears feet shuffling and a thump, and then Turner is saying in a strangled voice, “Let me go, asshole!”

Finn’s voice is perfectly calm, though. Cheerful, even. “Professor Walsh is not going to see any pictures of Hostile Seventeen because then she’ll know we’re here. And the idea, moron, was for her to think it had escaped, remember? So her precious boys in green track it here and then we can have some fun with _them_, right?”

Turner is choking and gagging. “All right!” he coughs. There’s another thud, as of a large object hitting the ground. “I was just fucking kidding!”

Spike is utterly confused by this interchange. But he has no time to try and puzzle it out, because Finn orders him to Heel, and Spike crawls in circles around the room after the man. “I like it like this. From now on, it doesn’t walk, right, Turner?”

Turner makes an affirmative sound.

“All right, now, hop on up,” Finn says. Spike sees that the man has led him to the exam table. He scrambles to his feet and, with a wary glance at Finn, lies supine on the metal surface.

Turner stomps over. A trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. Spike’s stomach lurches and he nearly shifts his face.

The men quickly strap Spike to the table, taking special care to ensure that his head is immobile. “You do it,” Finn says, and stands between Spike’s legs, apparently so he can toy with the piercing in his cock.

Turner goes away, and comes back a moment later carrying a metal tray, which he places across Spike’s chest. There’s not much on it. Just a needle—a much smaller needle than the one Turner used in his cock, Spike is relieved to see—and some heavy black thread. Turner picks up the needle and, after several unsuccessful attempts, manages to thread it.

He holds the needle in his right hand. He reaches out with his left hand, and uses it to pinch Spike’s right eyelid shut.

Oh, no. Please no.

Spike’s entire body goes completely rigid and he tries to beg, but of course can only make muffled noises into the gag. He tries to force his lid open and can’t. He feels so sodding helpless, not even able to turn his head a little, and the needle is heading right for him.

Turner slowly, painstakingly, sews Spike’s eyelid shut. It’s not especially painful, at least compared to the other treatments he’s received at those hands. It’s the horror of his situation that gets to him, that makes him cry and shake and pull uselessly against the restraints. The entire time, though, Finn is playing with Spike, tickling the inner crease of his thighs, rolling and bouncing his bollocks, moving his cock around and pulling on the ring. He’s humming, too, a sprightly tune that Spike doesn’t recognize.

Now Turner is cutting the thread. Spike’s eye is completely sealed. With his remaining eye he sees the tip of Turner’s tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrates on rethreading the needle. Then Turner is pinching that eye shut, and he sees nothing.

He hasn’t stopped struggling. His own breathing sounds harsh and he feels blood trickling down his hands from the wounds where he’s pulled against the wrist restraints. He can smell it, too, and he knows that if he could, he’d lick it off.

Turner is finished. Spike can see nothing now other than a general impression of light and darkness through the closed lids. He’s been blinded before by darkness or the rubber hood, but that was temporary. He suspects this blindness will last a long time.

He has a fleeting shock—what if they make him fight like this? But then he’s calmed by the thought that that would mean a quick and certain dusting, which is all he’s ever hoped for.

Without warning, the chip sends a blast through his head. He spasms against the straps and cries out again. Blinded, he can’t even tell when one of the men is about to—

Another agonizing jolt.

Before he has fully recovered, four hands are undoing the restraints, and once again Finn—he can tell it’s him, because his hands are larger and less calloused—pushes him to the ground. Before he can manage to bring his hands up to rip out the stitches, Turner calls out, “Kneel!” and he rises and clasps his hands behind him.

Turner hooks the leash to his cock.

“Floor,” Turner commands, and Spike drops to all fours.

This trip down the corridor is much worse than the previous ones. He is crawling through the filth on the ground, and although he can’t see it, he can smell it, and he can feel it as it adheres to his skin. He also can’t anticipate when the man at the other end of the leash is going to slow or speed up, or when he’s going to move to one side to avoid debris. As a result, the tugs on his sore cock are almost constant, and, more than once, he bumps headfirst into…something.

They enter a room. By the echoes, he judges it to be quite large. The floor is tiled. It is cold—feels like a meat locker—and he instantly begins to shiver uncontrollably.

He’s led farther into the room and told to Stand. When he does, his hands are locked into chains and then hoisted above his head so that he’s barely on his toes. Then his feet are spread wide and chained as well, his lacerated wrists now bearing all his weight.

Metal squeaks and, a split second after he hears water running, a blast of the icy fluid sprays his face. Turner and Finn laugh as he turns his head and tries to avoid it, and then the stream is run across his arms and torso and groin and legs. A moment later it’s hitting his skull and back and arse.

The cold now is cutting into him like knives.

It’s a slight relief when a human body comes close behind him, radiating little traces of heat. A hand clutches his ear and Turner growls, “Stay still.” Then a razor—a straight razor—is skimming across his scalp. Before, he hadn’t particularly cared when they shaved away his hair. But it had begun to grow back, and he loved how Xander would run his fingers through it when they were in bed together, a soothing little massage.

When his head is completely shaved, he’s not surprised to feel the razor at his groin. He’s very careful not to move.

“Pretty,” says Finn, and runs a hand down the center of Spike’s body. Finn walks away, but returns a moment later.

_Crack!_

A line of fire blazes across Spike’s back. He jerks forward, but not enough to avoid the next lash that hits him. Or the next.

Finn whips him until the man is too breathless from the exertion to hum any more. Until Spike hangs motionless, smelling the ribbons of blood that are running down his back and arse and legs. Then, oh Christ, Finn walks around him and now the scourge is slicing open chest and belly and ripping into his groin. He tries to hide his face against his upraised arms, but the lash finds him anyway, scoring across his cheeks and brow.

He’s not even certain when it stops. Perhaps he blacked out, but in any case he is fully conscious when the hose is turned on him again. He screams and screams. Then he is crashing to the wet floor as his bonds are released.

Dimly, he hears Turner say with disgust, “We’re going to have to carry it.”

“Yeah. I didn’t want it getting dirty now anyway,” Finn responds.

And he’s hoisted up--one pair of hands under his shoulders and another grasping his ankles—and carried into a nearby room that is, mercifully, warmer. It smells better, too, scents of beer and pizza and—God, scents of Xander—male sweat, all underlain with the sharp tang of cleaning fluids.

The men drop him on the floor and he moans and curls into a ball. There are footsteps, rustling noises. “Crawl here, Seventeen,” orders Turner, and Spike laboriously pulls himself onto his hands and knees. Still trailing the leash between his legs, he aims for the man’s voice.

He bashes into something—a chair, maybe—corrects his course. He stops when he bumps against a leg.

“Hungry?”

Yes, he is. Although he knows very well he can get much hungrier than this.

“Kneel.”

The gag is unstrapped and pulled out of his mouth. He hears it bounce against the floor. It’s so nice to have his tongue free, to be able to close his mouth.

“Beg.”

And he does. He bends his head and raises his arse and licks along the top of Turner’s shoe.

“Now, show Finn how you beg real _nice_.”

He thinks about this for a moment, then rises to his knees and gapes his mouth open. Turner steps in close, wraps his palm around the back of Spike’s skull, and pushes his face up against his denim-clad crotch. He rocks his hips forward, the rough fabric digging into the welts.

“Unzip me with your mouth, slut.”

Spike has never done this before and finds it hard to get a good purchase on the zipper with his teeth, but he’s finally able to ease Turner’s trousers open. By now Turner’s cock is hard, and it pushes through the fly in the man’s boxers, pressing insistently against Spike’s chin and nose.

“Take it in your mouth.”

Spike hates how the taste of this man is so familiar. He tries to pretend it’s Xander who’s thrusting in between his lips, but Xander had only allowed him to do this that one time, and Xander had never called him foul names or ground the toe of his shoe against Spike’s aching genitals. Soon Turner is pumping faster, his cockhead hitting the back of Spike’s throat, the scent of him surrounding Spike in a haze. When he comes, Spike swallows without gagging, then he licks the deflating cock clean.

Turner pushes him away and the lash marks on his back spark and sizzle. Then it’s Finn looming over him and petting his bare scalp.

“Professor Walsh always knew how to pick ‘em,” he whispers. “Always an eye for quality male flesh, though she never uses it herself.

“You should be thankful we took you. She would’ve gotten tired of you, replaced you with a new and better model, and then where would you be?” His laugh is terrifying.

Now Finn is unzipping and sticking his cock into Spike’s open mouth. It’s not a particularly long one, but, like the rest of the man, it’s broad. Finn moves in and out very, very slowly, trailing the glans along Spike’s bottom lip, pulling nearly all the way out, and then gradually sinking back in. He’s petting Spike’s head again with one hand, humming his little song in rhythm with his movements. He’s fucking Spike’s face like he has all day and Spike supposes that he probably does.

Spike starts a little when there are voices behind him, but then he realizes it’s a television. A movie, maybe. Something with a care chase.

Finn just keeps rocking back and forth. Spike’s already been kneeling so long that it doesn’t matter, and his mouth is already used to being stretched again. But the petting is driving him around the bend. It’s so falsely gentle, a lie, like the lie that Xander cared. Nobody cares for him. He remembers the first day he saw Xander, and Xander told him that someone had loved him. He wonders if that was a lie, too.

Finally, Finn’s movements become more urgent and his plunges into Spike’s throat become deeper.

“Hostile Seventeen,” says Finn in that eternally cheery tone. “Imagine for a moment what I’ll do to you if I feel even the slightest bit of tooth.”

Spike shudders. He can imagine all sorts of things. Although it seems that their imagination is even less limited in this regard than his.

“Make a noise to tell me you understand.”

The sound that leaves Spike’s throat is high-pitched and desperate.

“Good.”

Now Finn is moving very quickly, and Spike’s nose keeps smashing against his pubic bone. “Good,” says Finn again, calmly.

And someone activates the chip.

It takes every ounce of Spike’s will not to bite down as the agony tears through him. His arms have been lax at his sides and now he raises them, clutching at the sides of his head. He starts to fall, but Finn’s hand on his head keeps him upright. His mouth is filled with bitter fluid and he realizes that when the chip ripped open his skull, the bastard came.

Finn withdraws. Spike sways on his knees, semen dripping from his lips and running down his chin.

“It’s ready to feed,” announces Finn.

“Fine. Coming.”

There are more footsteps and rustling sounds. He hears a liquid pouring.

“Floor.” He’s happy to be able to support himself with his hands.

Something metal clangs to the floor directly in front of him, and his nostrils are assaulted with the smell of blood. Animal, of course, not human. But old. Rancid. Putrid.

“Eat up, Seventeen. Lap it up like the beast you are. Unless you’d rather be punished.”

He almost would rather be punished than consume this foul stuff. But disgusting as it is, it’ll fill the space in his belly and help heal some of his injuries. So he sticks his tongue out and ducks his head, and begins to drink from the bowl. He has to force himself to gag the shite down, and then fight not to retch it back up, but eventually the bowl is empty. At Turner’s command, he licks it clean.

Despite everything, his well-trained cock has filled as he ate. It’s now rigid between his legs, the tip slightly wet with pre-come. Finn, of course, finds this hilarious. “Fucking vampires,” he chortles. “They pretend to be almost human, but they’re just animals.”

There’s a scraping sound, as of furniture being moved. “Come here, slut,” Finn says, and Spike does his best to crawl to the voice. He stops when he bumps against Finn’s raised foot. “Kneel.”

When Spike goes up on his knees, Finn plants the sole of his boot against the length of Spike’s hard cock. “Hump this.”

Spike swings his hips forward and back. The rough tread rubs painfully against the lash marks on his organ, and he can feel the dirt and muck coming off the boot and onto his skin, making him filthy.

Finn digs his heel in. “C’mon, Seventeen. Fuck yourself good.”

Spike speeds his movements. He’s sickened to feel himself respond to the friction. His bollocks tingle and grow heavy, and fluid is now leaking freely from his cock.

“Put your hands behind your neck. Too bad you can’t see what a pretty picture you make like this.”

He moves even faster, and now he’s panting heavily. The dildo inside him shifts and grinds with every thrust. Finn is teasing him, sometimes moving his foot away a little so that Spike has to buck far forward, sometimes pushing his heel into Spike’s aching bollocks. Then, in a rush that’s more pain than pleasure, Spike comes, his release spurting onto his belly and Finn’s boot.

He stills. Finn kicks him, causing him nearly to double over, and commands, “Lick your mess off my boot.” Spike bends and does so, tasting his own penny-lime flavor mixed with whatever vile muck Finn has trod in.

Now Turner walks over, pulls him up again, and shoves the penis gag back in him. A horrible mixture of rotten blood, semen, plastic, sewage, and bile coats the inside of his mouth.

Finn says, “One more thing.” He bends Spike’s head to one side and then shoves something hard into his ear. Then he does this in the other ear as well. Spike is now not only blind and virtually mute, but almost deaf as well. He fights back panic, knowing it will do him no good.

Someone pulls the leash and he follows along. When they stop, he’s shoved backwards into…a cage. It’s very small, and he can only fit huddled up. The opening is shut and latched. The whole thing is made of metal bars that press into his skin on all sides. Still, if he’s careful he can shift himself around a bit. And at least his arms are free. He wraps them around himself, pretending he’s being held by someone else.

 

Finn likes to hurt him. Literally gets off on it.

Whenever the whim hits him, he drags Spike out of his cage by his collar, snaps the leash onto his cock, and pulls him into the cold room, which seems to be just next door. Then he strings him up, often with assistance from Turner, and finds new ways to inflict pain.

There are whips and scourges of various types, of course, as well as canes and paddles. There’s electric shock and burns from chemicals and flames. One day, Finn systematically pulls every one of his fingernails. Another day, Finn plays with holy water, slowly dripping it on the most sensitive areas of Spike’s body: his nipples, his cock, his bollocks. Finn removes the huge dildo, and Spike has just a moment of relief from the constant intrusion when Finn rams it back in, having apparently dipped it in holy water. Spike screams so much that time that he loses his voice entirely.

The next time Finn plays with him it’s the dildo in Spike’s mouth that’s covered in holy water. This time Spike can’t scream at all because the burns quickly close off his airway. But even with the plugs in his ears he can hear the sickening sizzle of the flesh inside his mouth.

Finn likes to play with the controller box, although Spike generally blacks out after only a few presses of the button, and that clearly takes the fun out of it for the man. After Turner demonstrates the sensors in Spike’s cock and hands, Finn also enjoys forcing Spike to touch himself.

Spike is fed only when his condition becomes so bad that he doesn’t respond at all to Finn’s torments, and the blood is always fetid. After the holy water in his mouth, though, he can’t swallow at all, and the men have to cut an incision deep in his belly and slowly pour the blood directly into his stomach. It takes several bags of blood before he’s adequately healed that time.

Finn’s favorite implement, though, is also a simple one: a knife. He enjoys leisurely flaying portions of Spike’s body or cutting intricate designs into his skin.

The men don’t fuck Spike’s arse, perhaps because he’s so stretched from the dildo. Turner does fist him again, though, and then Finn does as well. It’s excruciating when Finn does it because his hands and muscular forearms are so large.

Turner likes to use his mouth, though. Spike doesn’t mind. They usually wash him first, and it feels good to be temporarily rid of the stinking grime that coats him. Plus, the man’s cock isn’t any more uncomfortable than the gag, and, bitter as it is, his come tastes better than the blood they feed him.

The bigger man rarely fucks his mouth, probably because he usually comes from the infliction of pain alone. Whenever Spike is in the throes of his worst agonies, he smells fresh semen.

Finn sometimes takes the earplugs out during the torture sessions because it’s fun to tease the vampire, to watch him tense and jerk as Finn makes various ominous noises. It seems to Spike that he has a whole collection of power tools that he rarely actually uses, as the sound of a drill or a saw coming close to Spike is as bad as feeling the metal tear into his body.

Right now, Spike is hanging upside down. The men impaled each of his feet with a heavy hook, and then hoisted the hooks high. They are apparently waiting to see how long it takes for his body weight to cause the hooks to rip completely through. His hands are cuffed behind him and the cuffs attached to the dildo, so that his chest is forced forward. All ten of his fingers are mangled, smashed with a hammer earlier today. He’s trying to stay as still as possible, but he keeps shivering from the cold and twitching from the pain. Sometimes one or the other of the men approaches and slaps his arse hard or squeezes a nipple or his genitals.

The earplugs are out, so Spike can hear the slow patter of his own blood onto the floor, and can listen to the men conversing as they wait.

“Where the fuck _are_ they?” whines Turner. “They should have tracked it here long ago. I’m tired of waiting in this stinking hole.”

“Playing with Seventeen doesn’t pass the time?”

“It’s getting boring. It hardly even reacts any more.”

“Yeah,” sighs Finn. “It’ll probably dust soon.”

_Oh yes, please, please_, thinks Spike.

“Then how will we get our revenge?” Turner demands.

“I’ve been waiting a decade to give Professor Walsh what she deserves. I can wait longer. If we can’t stage a vampire massacre this time, we’ll find some other way.”

Turner growls inarticulately, stomps over, and slugs Spike squarely in the gut, sending the vampire swinging painfully. Finn just laughs. “Yeah, that’ll help, asshole.”

“But why the fuck aren’t they _here_?”

“Well, we know the tracking works. Maybe they don’t know it’s missing.”

“You don’t think that fucker Harris called the Initiative the second he realized it was gone?”

“Maybe not.” Finn is thoughtful. “Maybe he didn’t want them to find out he’d lost their precious monster. Or maybe…I don’t know. He always was a strange one.”

“So whatta we do now?” Turner sounds like a petulant child.

“We stay put and play with our toy until either they show up or it dusts. One or the other is going to happen soon.”

Spike is trying to puzzle out the meaning of this conversation, but his brain stopped operating well long ago. With every day that passes, he’s becoming more…hollow. More like the animal they say he is, merely a debased creature fueled by nothing but pain and demon instinct.

The men are silent for a while. Spike’s left foot jerks down over the hook, but there must still be enough tissue left to keep him in place.

One of the men comes to stand near him but doesn’t touch him. “I have another idea,” he says. It’s Turner.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“I was there when they wiped Seventeen. It was great—it screamed and begged for days.”

“And your point is?”

“What if it was wiped again? It’d be a blank slate, and we could train it any way we wanted. I think I could do it.”

Spike can’t help it—at these words he starts whimpering and shaking his head. No, no, God, no. Don’t take away the only thing he has. Don’t take away Xander. He’s weeping now, and as the sobs wrack his body, it proves too much. First his left foot gives, and, a few seconds later, his right.

He crashes headfirst to the floor.

 

[Chapter 12.](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/5132.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00002f2r/)  
 


	15. Chapter 12: Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and  [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 12: Searching**_  
**Chapter Title:** Chapter 12: Searching  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and  [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**It's just about tomorrow here, so I'm going to go ahead and post. Two chapters today, because 13 is really short. Another of ** [ ](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile) [ **sueworld2003** ](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) ** 's fantastic banners at the end today! Chapter 11 was pretty squicky, so at the risk of being spoilery, I'll tell you that 12 is nowhere near as bad, and 13 is, at least, really short.**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

             He nearly crashes his truck several times as he frantically circles the neighborhood. Calm down, he warns himself. You can’t find Spike if they’re scraping you off the pavement.

But he doesn’t take his own advice.

It’d only been dark for maybe 15 minutes when he got home, so he knows Spike couldn’t have got far. Fuck! If he hadn’t stopped at that Indian place for dinner….

But what-ifs aren’t going to help either, so he keeps driving, craning his neck for any possible sign of the vampire. He sees nothing.

After a couple of hours, he has to admit to himself that Spike could be anywhere.

He goes back home, and any hopes that Spike had returned are quickly dashed. The house is still empty.

He wanders into the living room and collapses on a chair. He buries his face in his hands.

Why?

Was it what happened last night? Was Spike disgusted at the way Harris had used his body? Except he’d seemed to want it so badly. He’d _begged_ for it. He’d seemed to enjoy it. He can’t believe that Spike would love him, but he’d at least thought that the vampire truly cared for him.

Maybe everything had been some kind of a ruse, a demon trick to get Xander to help him. But why? Xander was helping him anyway. And why would he leave now? Surely he realizes he’s in more danger from the Initiative away from Xander than with him.

Maybe he just couldn’t face the possibility of returning to the Initiative or being dusted. But Xander can’t believe that. Horribly traumatized as he is, Spike is no coward.

Xander’s mind is chasing itself hopelessly around in circles when it pauses. Suddenly takes note of something he’d seen as he entered the room. Xander looks up from his hands towards the couch.

There’s a book there, open against the cushions, as if the reader had just put it down temporarily. And there on the side table is the tool mug. Xander gets up and walks over for a closer look. The mug is half full of blood. Sitting next to it is Spike’s journal and a pen.

He walks quickly into the kitchen and spies something else he hadn’t really noticed earlier. Spike’s Docs are lined up neatly against the wall near the doorway.

He throws open the closet next to the boots, and there is every coat he owns. Except the shredded, mucousy bomber jacket, of course, which was hauled away by the garbage men this morning.

And finally, one more little thing clicks in his brain. When he came home today, he hadn’t had to fumble with the bag of food and his keys, because the door was already unlocked.

He feels lightheaded and sinks into a chair before he can collapse to the floor.

Spike didn’t leave. He was taken.

 

He’s sitting on the couch, a pencil in one hand and a pad of paper in the other. He’d thought that maybe if he wrote down some notes, that would help him clear his head, help him decide what to do next.

It hadn’t worked.

The paper’s still blank and he still has no idea what to do next.

He knows it had to be either the Initiative or Shales’s people who took Spike. They were the only ones who knew he was here, except for Willow and Todd. And he can’t imagine why either of them would snatch the vampire.

But also can’t imagine why Shales or the Initiative would. If they wanted him back that badly, they could have just demanded that Xander hand him over. They wouldn’t have needed to sneak into his house while he wasn’t home. And wouldn’t they have said something first? Shales was still being pretty patient a couple days ago, when Xander last spoke to him.

This isn’t getting him anywhere.

As he falls back against the back of the couch, sighing heavily, his eyes happen to fall on the journal. He stares at it for several minutes. Spike has written in it every evening since Xander gave it to him. Except last night, when he’d been too busy recovering from the Tenrulra. And other things.

Feeling guilty, Xander reaches for the journal and runs his hand over the leather cover. He puts it back down. Stares at it some more. Then he picks it back up and opens it to the first page.

 

_30 March  2008_

_My name is Spike. I need to remember this. I have a name, and it’s not Seventeen, or slut, or bitch, or anything else the soldier boys called me._

_I am a vampire. A weak and neutered one, but a vampire all the same. _

_Someone once loved me. Xander Harris told me this, and I believe him._

_There was another vampire who was important to me once. I don’t know his name, although he knew mine. I killed him. He wanted me to._

_Xander says he will dust me instead of returning me to those bastards, and I believe that, also. I don’t understand why he is being good to me. Perhaps he is just a very good man. He treats me like a man, too._

 

Fuck.

Xander has to put the book down and blink back tears.

Another vampire—Xander has an awful thought. He quickly pushes it away. Nope. Not gonna go there right now. Right now, he needs to figure out how to help Spike.

He flips through the journal, stopping at the last entry.

 

_18 April 2008_

_Last night X took me to a bloody brilliant place, a bookstore so big they give you a map when you go in. He bought me loads of books. There were humans there, but none of them paid me much mind. Thought I was human, too, I suppose. The bloke in the café even smiled at me._

_On the way home, we were attacked by a Tenrulra. I was afraid it was going to hurt X, but he bashed it with a shopping trolley and I smashed its head. Good thing those demons return to their hell dimension when they die, or X would have had a body to explain to someone._

_When we got home, X gave me a lovely bath. Told me he cares for me. Don’t know why he would, but he acts as if he does._

_After, we shagged. No, X made love to me. I was afraid he would never touch me, but he did. It felt so right to be filled with his beautiful cock. To be kissed by that beautiful mouth. If I dust now, I’ll at least have had this one truly happy day. I never expected to be happy at all._

 

Xander reflects on the fact that the happiest day Spike can remember is one where he got shredded and slimed by a nasty demon. But, then Xander’s own happiest day in…he doesn’t know how long…is one where he almost got eaten by that same nasty demon.

God, he’d thought nobody was ever going to get under his skin like this, and then somebody does, and that somebody is _Spike_. And now Spike’s gone.

He goes to bed eventually but he doesn’t sleep. He huddles on the edge of the big bed, feeling the emptiness next to him. Feeling the emptiness inside him.

 

It’s Saturday, which means he can’t even go to the shop and work to keep his mind off things. Maybe he can head to the garage and finish the present for Willow’s kids.

Shit! Willow! She’s flying in tomorrow.

But there won’t be any Spike here for her to de-chip.

He picks up the phone and dials her number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Will.”

“Xander! I was just finishing packing and I was going to call you to ask if you have internet at home yet and if you don’t can you get it by tomorrow because I might need to use it to get some information and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner but I just thought of it.”

Xander opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Xan? Are you there?”

He swallows. “Will, he’s gone.” And goddammit, his voice cracks on the last word.

“Xander, are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“He’s gone. Spike’s gone. They…stole him.”

“Stole him?”

“Yesterday. While I was at work.”

More silence.

“Will? They…they’re doing awful things to him. It’s….God, I need to get him back. I need….” He’s breaking. Right here on the phone he’s breaking and Willow Rosenberg-Esposito is hearing every second of it.

“I’ll see if I can get an earlier flight,” she says softly. “We’re going to bring him back, okay?”

And he feels a little better. At least he has one person on his side, and Willow is a hell of an ally.

“Okay,” he answers.

He can’t settle down. He wanders between the kitchen and the living room and the bedrooms. The fucking Indian take-out is still sitting on the counter where he left it last night. He throws it away. He makes himself a sandwich and then throws that away, too, uneaten. He brews some coffee, but as soon as he goes looking for a mug he thinks of the tool mug, still sitting where Spike left it, and he starts crying. He turns on the tv, turns it right back off again. He thinks about going for a run, but he can’t bring himself to leave the house. He punches a hole in the bedroom wall and doesn’t bother to bandage his bruised and bloody knuckles.

Willow calls to let him know she switched to a red-eye, and she’ll be arriving at PDX at seven tomorrow morning.

He wanders out to the garage, planning to work on the toybox after all, but the first thing he sees is the metal crate he’d transported Spike in. He thinks of how Spike must have felt, hurt and scared and cold and hungry, confined in that fucking box all the way from Omaha to Portland with no clue what was happening to him and why. He kicks the box, and now his toes are bruised too.

So he goes back into the house and sinks into one of the recliners. And spends the rest of the day staring at nothing.

He can’t sleep that night either, and he knows he looks like shit warmed over by the time he drags himself to get Willow. She spies him as soon as she’s through the security gate and frowns, but she runs to him and throws her arms around him.

“Mister, let’s go get you some coffee,” she says.

They don’t say much as they wait for her suitcase, or as they drive away. He stops at a Denny’s that’s just off the freeway. She makes him order some breakfast.

Willow has definitely honed her mothering skills over the past few years, because she won’t let up on him until he’s choked down some pancakes and sausage. And even then, she scowls at him over her tea.

“Fill me in, Xander.”

“There’s not much to say. I came home from work and he was just gone. At first I thought he’d taken off. But then I saw all his stuff was still there—his boots, even—and I realized he hadn’t gone on his own.”

“And do you have any idea who it was?”

“It had to be the Initiative. Or General Shales. But I can’t figure out why they did it like this.”

“Does anybody else know Spike was here?”

“Just Todd. He’s this guy…um, sorta…we were dating before the whole Spike think happened. And he’s actually a demon.”

Willow’s eyebrows shoot up but she doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, well, a Stadnent demon. They’re…um…friendly.”

“And you told him about Spike?”

“He kinda found out by accident. And…there was a thing…but not a big thing. And then Todd broke up with me because….Anyway, he broke up with me.”

“Xander, is it possible Todd has something to do with Spike disappearing?”

“Oh, no. I mean, we parted on pretty good terms. And he’s a good guy. Demon. He really is.”

Willow pours some more hot water into her cup and jiggles the tea bag while Xander toys with his fork. She takes a sip.

“Will, please, tell me there’s some way to get him back.”

“We’ll think of something. We will.” And she clasps her hand on top of his.

“It needs to be soon. Fuck knows what they’re doing to him right now, and I’m just sitting here eating.”

“Xan, he’s an old vampire. And, and he’s tough. He survived that organ falling on him, and Angelus, and…and I’m sure he’s fine.”

Xander shakes his head. “You haven’t seen him. He’s not…not the same. The things they did to him, Will! He wouldn’t even move with permission, would barely speak. He…he _cries_, Willow! Do you know what it’s like to have to comfort William the Bloody because he got scared by the remote control? To have to teach him how to put on his own pants? To wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of him screaming through another nightmare?” Xander’s voice has risen and the elderly couple at the next table are glaring at him.

He takes a deep breath. He says, much more quietly, “He can’t even defend himself. They put that fucking chip in his head and they can do whatever sick things they want to him and he just has to take it.”

“You said he can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

“Demons. He can kill demons. That’s what they’re training him for. He killed a demon the other night and saved my life, Willow. But he can’t do anything to humans.”

Willow is alarmed. “He saved your life? Xander, are you all right?”

Xander laughs hollowly. “I’m just dandy. The Tenrulra sliced Spike up pretty good, but he didn’t let it lay a claw on me. And that so doesn’t matter now anyway.”

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead in one hand.

“He’s…important to you, isn’t he?”

Xander looks up at her. “I’m pretty sure I was falling in love with him.”

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Rolls her eyes up like she’s trying to find the right words.

“Look, Will, I know it’s stupid, okay? Spike was never gonna love the Zeppo.”

“Xander! You’re not—“

Xander waves this away. “Doesn’t matter. Just—I just need to get him out of there, okay?”

She nods, squeezes his hand again. “Okay. Let’s get to your house and figure this out.”

He smiles weakly at her. “Thanks, Will.”

She smiles back. “Did you get an internet connection up?”

“Fuck! I’m sorry. Forgot all about it.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take care of it, okay? Maybe you can get some sleep?”

He thinks that that’s pretty unlikely, but he won’t tell her that.

He pays the bill and they head out. She talks about the kids on the way home, and Jen, and her stupid department chair who keeps messing up the schedule.

When they get home, he settles her things in the spare room. It’s painful for him to even go in—he can’t help picturing Spike cowering and filthy there, his first morning in this house. But, then, he pictures Spike everywhere now. Resting on the couch. Standing in front of the microwave. Rinsing in the shower. Lying in his bed.

Willow unpacks some clothing and two laptops and a bunch of other mysterious electronic gear. Then she turns to Xander, who’s sitting on the bed, pulling little bits of fluff off the blue blanket.

“The best way for me to get you online is online, which is pretty ironic, don’t you think, because how are you supposed to get there is you can’t get there? So I need to get to a place with wifi. A cafe, maybe?”

Xander blinks at her. “Um, yeah, I know a good place that has wifi.”

“Can I borrow your truck, then? Or I could take a cab.”

“Actually, it’s close enough to walk. And I’ll go with. I need to get out of the house.”

“You sure you won’t try to get a nap in?”

He shakes his head. Not gonna happen.

“Oookay. And you know what? I think it’ll be helpful if we get you a cell phone, too, so we can keep in touch better. You know, if we have to go somewhere separately.”

Xander has refused to enter the twenty-first century long enough, he supposes. Maybe he’ll get one of those cool phones that plays music, too.

She picks up one of her computers and they slip on their jackets. Ladd’s Addiction is only a few blocks away. It’s Sunday, so the place is crowded, but they spot an empty table near a window. Willow goes to stake out the table and fire up her laptop while Xander gets in line at the counter to order.

He’s in a daze, thinking about Spike and trying to convince himself that Willow is really going to be able to help. So when he gets to the head of the line and looks up to find a familiar face, he’s nearly stunned with surprise.

“Todd?!”

Todd looks shocked, too.

“Xander? What’s the matter? You look like shit.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“But…but…”

“A friend of mine took over as manager here a couple months ago, and he finally talked me into quitting the old place and coming to work for him. It’s cool. But what’s the _matter_, Xander?”

“I, umm…”

As Xander stutters uncertainly, Todd eyes the line that’s growing behind him. “Look, go ahead and order something, okay? I’m gonna take a break in a few and then we can talk.”

“Er, okay. A large mocha and a large Earl Grey.”

“Tea?”

“I’m here with a friend.” Xander points at Willow, who’s focused on the screen in front of her.

“Six ten. And I’ll bring them out when they’re ready.”

Xander hands him a ten, then shoves the change in the tip jar. Todd smiles and turns to the next customer, a short woman with green dreadlocks.

Xander sits down across from Willow, who’s still tapping away at her keyboard. “Just a sec, Xan, okay?”

“Okay. And we’re going to have company.” She shoots him a curious glance and then looks back at the laptop.

She’s just finishing up when Todd walks over carrying three cups. “Bought myself a fix while I was at it,” he says, setting them down on the table.

“Willow, this is Todd. I was telling you about him earlier.” Willow’s brows run up so high this time that they nearly disappear into her hairline. “He, um, just started working here. Todd, this is my best friend Willow.”

Todd holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I saw your picture. Cute kids!”

Willow glances at Xander, because she knows exactly where that picture is, and she’s undoubtedly imagining how Todd came to see it. But she grins and shakes his hand. “Hi, Todd. Thanks.”

Todd sits down. “So Xander, you gonna tell me know why you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”

Xander looks at Willow, but she’s clearly not going to be any help here. He sighs. “Todd, Spike’s gone.”

Todd looks stricken, which surprises Xander. “Oh, no, Xan. What happened?”

“Someone—the Initiative, I think—took him on Friday while I wasn’t home.” And somehow, although this isn’t the first time he’s said this, it’s just too much. He begins to sob.

Willow and Todd both jump up and huddle up close. Willow stands and Todd kneels, and both wrap their arms around him. He knows everyone in the whole place is staring and he feels like a complete idiot, but he can’t stop. So instead he just tries to bury his face in his friends’ bodies.

After a few minutes he is able to get himself under control and he waves them back to their chairs. He uses a paper napkin to wipe his disgustingly snotty face. “Sorry,” he mumbles, shamefaced. The other two make soothing noises at him.

Willow says, “Xander, do you want me to talk?” and he nods gratefully. She fills Todd in on the few details they have. When she’s done, he looks at them gravely.

“What are you going to do?”

Xander is blank. He has no answer for that question. Luckily, Willow does.

“I’m going to get into the Initiative databases and see if I can find out exactly where he’s being held. Then we’ll find a way to get him out.”

“You can do that?”

Xander looks at his oldest friend with pride. “Will’s a computer whiz. A computer god—er, goddess. She can do that.”

Todd considers them both for a minute. He takes a long drink from his cup, then puts it down. “Let me help,” he says.

This surprises Xander. “Why?”

“Because whatever you end up doing, I figure an extra set of hands might come in handy. And, um, I have some hidden talents.” He glances sidelong at Willow when he says this.

“Okay, Todd, first off, I am already well aware of how talented you can be.” And Xander feels a tiny bit happier when this makes both Todd _and_ Willow blush. “Second, she knows who you are. It’s cool. She grew up on the Hellmouth, too.”

Todd looks appraisingly at her. “Did you date demons, too?”

She smiles. “No. Just a werewolf.” His jaw drops and she giggles.

But they’re getting off point here. “And third, Todd, what I meant was why would you want to help me. After I—“

“I told you before. I want you to be happy.” He rests a hand on Xander’s shoulder. “I’ll be honest—I wish it was me that you wanted. But it’s not. And I can feel how losing Spike is killing you, Xander.” Xander has a feeling he’s not using the term killing metaphorically. And Todd’s right. Every moment his vampire is missing, it feels as if a little more of his heart is torn away.

“Besides,” Todd adds, “after what you told me about the Initiative and what it does to demons, I’d like to do whatever I can to damage them.”

He stands. “I have to get back to work. Just make sure you call me when you’re ready, okay?”

“Thanks, Todd. You’re….I don’t even deserve you for a friend.”

“Yeah, you do, Xan. Willow, it’s been a pleasure. We’ll talk soon.”

She smiles up at him. “’Bye, Todd.”

After he’s gone, she leans in close. “He’s really cute. Doesn’t look demony at all.”

“You haven’t seen him sporting his green and scaly look.”

“Oh.”

“He’s…a good guy, though.”

Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washes over him and he feels nearly ready to collapse onto the table. It must have shown on his face, because Willow snaps her computer shut decisively. “C’mon, let’s go home. We can go phone shopping later.”

They wave at Todd as they leave.

When they get home, Willow practically drags him into his bedroom, then pushes him onto the bed. “You know, Xander, there was a time back in high school when I fantasized about this kind of thing.”

He smiles. “I just thought of something. Our last kiss—that was Spike’s doing, wasn’t it?”

She sits next to him. “Yes. With the fighting and the microscope and the kidnapping and the crying and the impaling.”

They’re both quiet for a while.

“Xan…I’m going to help you no matter what, you know? But, but, even if he can’t hurt anybody, he’s still a vampire.”

He looks up at the ceiling.

“And not the having a soul kind, either, though I remember even the soul thing didn’t work out so well….” She trails off.

Fuck. Angel. Absolutely not going to think about that right now. Or Buffy either, actually.

“Will, I never expected to ride off into the sunset with him. But this whole soul thing….Those Initiative bastards, they have souls, don’t they? Fat lot of good that does. And Spike, you know, he reads _poetry_. He keeps a diary. He….Even with Drusilla, they were together, like, forever, weren’t they?”

Willow sighs and flops backwards beside him. “Okay. Let’s just find him.”

 

Xander does fall asleep and doesn’t wake until it’s dark out. Willow has obviously spent the day doing something on her computers, but he doesn’t know what. They won’t have internet until tomorrow.

 It’s too late to go shopping for a phone, so Xander orders in a pizza and they spend the evening on the couch. Xander pulls out his secret love that only Willow knows about, and they spend the evening watching it. They laugh at the RUSs and the evil Prince Humperdink, and then Xander wanders back to bed, mumbling, “I just hope it’s enough to buy a miracle, that’s all.”

 

Xander does get a cool phone that plays music. Willow promises that when she gets a chance, she’ll download some of his favorites for him.

When they get home, Willow makes a beeline for the computers she has set up on the kitchen table, eager to get started with their newly operational internet. Xander wanders aimlessly, then remembers he needs to call Dan and tell him he won’t be coming in to work for…a while.

The red light on the answering machine is blinking, and Xander pushes the message button.

_Harris, Shales here. Maggie Walsh just called and they’re eager for a resolution to this thing. I don’t mind you dragging it out a bit longer—I’d like to keep the Initiative hanging a while anyway. But we’re going to need a report very shortly, unless you can think of a good excuse for a delay._

_Call and let me know._

Xander and Willow stare at each other. Then Xander scrambles for the phone.

He has Shales’s private number, the one that gets him straight to the General without voicemail trees or secretaries.

“Shales.”

“General, it’s Xander Harris. I just got your message.”

“Yes. Well, what do you think?”

“Can you tell me exactly what Professor Walsh said to you today?”

“Of course she wants a report pronto, and she wants her project green-lighted. Oh, and she wants her vampire back. She says she has some more work she intends to do on it.”

Xander has never thought so fast in his life.

“Uh, I’ve had a pretty good chance to see how well he, uh, interacts with humans in the field. But I need to see how good he is at killing demons. Outside a cage, you know. And, um, that means I need a tracking device, ‘cause I can’t necessarily stick right to him if he’s chasing after something.”

Willow is looking at him as if he has just discovered the cure for cancer.

“I thought they gave you a device when you picked it up,” says Shales.

“No, General. Just the controller box. The thing that, you know, zaps him.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll have them FedEx you the tracker, then. Should be able to get it to you tomorrow.”

“Great. Thanks. And General, I think maybe I’m going to have to test him on a lot of different kinds of demons. To make sure, um, how well he really works. It might take a while. There aren’t that many nasties around here.”

“Fine. Walsh can wait some more.”

As soon as he hangs up, Xander slides his back along the cabinets until he’s sitting on the floor.

If Shales and Walsh don’t have Spike, who does?

 

[Chapter 13](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/5572.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	16. Chapter 13: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 13: Interlude**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 13: Interlude  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**It's just about tomorrow here, so I'm going to go ahead and post. Two chapters today, because 13 is really short. Another of ** [ ](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile) [ **sueworld2003** ](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) **'s fantastic banners at the end today! Chapter 11 was pretty squicky, so at the risk of being spoilery, I'll tell you that 12 is nowhere near as bad, and 13 is, at least, really short.**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

It’s probably Finn who invented the game.

They take out the earplugs to explain the rules to him. They have to repeat them several times, because he’s not processing language very well any more. Not even really thinking in words now. Just…sensations. Pain. Hunger. Cold. Memory of someone petting the small of his back, so nice, so—No. Not real. Never real. Pain. Hunger. Cold.

They attach a long chain to the dildo in his arse. The other end of the chain’s hooked to the wall. They have a timer, which of course he can’t see. The game is this: he crawls to the end of the chain before the timer runs out and he wins. That means they’ll feed him—oh God, when was they last time they fed him?—and put him back in his cage. If he doesn’t make it, he loses. That means they will zap him and drag him back to the wall to begin again.

Wouldn’t be such a hard game, if the men hadn’t spent the last several hours systematically breaking every bone in his arms and legs. And if Finn hadn’t carefully peeled all the skin from his cock and scrotum. He knows from recent experience that the skin will grow back, but if he allows his groin to drag along the floor, he’s afraid he’s going to lose his testicles. They won’t grow back.

Of course, this all assumes he doesn’t dust right now. But he’s given up hoping for that. Now he hopes for…nothing.

So he inches along on his mangled limbs, trying to keep his hips raised above the ground. Wishing the earplugs were back in so he didn’t have to listen to his bones grinding and snapping.

He loses.

 

A vampire can be chained in a coffin-sized box which is placed in a very cold room. Colder even than the cold room. Freezing.

And the box can be filled with water until the vampire is completely submerged, because of course it doesn’t need to breathe.

And the water can freeze, encasing the vampire in a solid block of ice, the ice pressing up so tightly against its skin so that it doesn’t even have room to shiver. Water will have flowed into the vampire’s nose and ears, but that will freeze, too, and the expansion this causes will be very painful. The vampire will be relieved that its other orifices are plugged.

The ice-encased vampire can be dragged out of the cold, cold room into a slightly warmer one, and the ice will slowly melt.

Eventually the vampire will be left with only a thin crust of ice adhering to its body, and then even that will drip away until the vampire lies in a large puddle.

And then the vampire can unchained and made to crawl back to the warm room, and its mouth can be fucked, and the humans fucking it will apparently enjoy the extreme frigidity of its throat.

He hadn’t know this before.

Now he does.

 

Finn drags and kicks the vampire out the door, into the corridor. Rolls it around with his foot until the vampire is covered in stinking muck. Bends down and pulls out an earplug, and whispers in the vampire’s ear: “If you’re still alive, that moron Turner will be ready to wipe your mind real soon. Too bad you won’t remember all the fun we had together. We’ll have to make new fun.” Shoves the plug back in and walks away. Doesn’t bother to restrain the vampire. It’s not going anywhere.

And the vampire thinks, with the small amount of its mind still capable of thinking, _Goodbye, Xander_.

 

[Chapter 14a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/5666.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	17. Chapter 14a: Finding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to[](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**| [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 14a: Finding**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 14a: Finding  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to[](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**Again, it's nearly midnight here, so I'm posting a new chapter. It's another two-parter.  
The story's almost done. I'll post Chapter 15 on Monday, and then the last three on Tuesday.**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

The tracking device is lost.

The Initiative apparently made ten zillion of the fucking controller boxes, but only two trackers. One of them is missing, and the other doesn’t work.

Maggie Walsh is not happy. Probably some heads have rolled over this.

General Shales is ecstatic. It makes the Initiative look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. And it means another delay while they try to create and calibrate a new device. Which isn’t easy because they are in Omaha and the chip they are tracking is, they assume, 1600 miles away in Portland. They want to send some technicians to Portland or, alternately, send the vampire back to Omaha. Xander refuses, and has enough pull that his refusal stands. So Walsh fumes, yet can’t even complain about the delay.

Xander is alternately manic and nearly catatonic.

At the end of the week, Willow has to return to Boston, to her job and family. Xander understands. But she promises to keep working from home, trying to find out who has Spike and why.

She calls every night.

She must have called Todd, too, because after she leaves, he comes by Xander’s house every day before and after work. He makes sure he eats something and pays the bills and occasionally bathes and changes his clothes.

It’s Todd who calls the shop and tells Dan that Xander is having a family crisis and can’t return to work. Dan is sympathetic and says Xander’s job will be waiting for him whenever Xander’s ready.

Virtually the only time Xander leaves the house is to run. He lopes for miles, feeling the pavement punishing his body with every step, feeling his breaths rip through anguished lungs, feeling his broken heart keep on beating. When he gets home, he’s often so sore he can barely move.

A package arrives one day. It’s thick and postmarked from London. Xander doesn’t open it. He puts it in the pile in the living room, the same pile with Spike’s unread books from Powell’s and barely-begun journal.

One night when Willow calls she’s in tears. She’s hacked her way into the Initiative’s files. She found some photos and videos they’d taken of some of the procedures they’d done on Hostile Seventeen.

“I thought vampires couldn’t be photographed,” Xander says. He doesn’t know how else to respond.

“Not on film, they can’t,” she sniffs. “Digital works just fine, though.”

“Will, I—“

“I’m sorry, Xander. You told me it was bad and I, I didn’t really believe you. I thought maybe Spike had…exaggerated.”

“Spike never told me anything. I saw some of it myself and guessed the rest. Remember, I spent some time being _part_ of the Initiative. I know how they operate.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

“I don’t blame you, Will. I wouldn’t want to believe it either.”

“Do you want to see these files? I can copy them onto disc and—“

“No! A world of no! I see it well enough in my head already.”

She sniffs again. “I’m going to go back to work, Xan. There are a lot of files here.”

“It can wait for tomorrow. Give yourself a break. Go…go spend some time with Jen.”

“Good night, Xan.”

“Night, Will.”

He goes out for another run.

A week later, Willow sounds much more excited when she calls.

“I found something really interesting, Xan.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s…mostly some internal emails, a few memos. There were four soldiers who were primarily responsible for Spike’s…training.”

Xander remembers the four men he’d seen that first time in Nebraska. They had beaten, fondled, and humiliated Spike. Not to mention locking him in with a Zeron, naked and unarmed.

“I know who you’re talking about. I saw them when I was there.”

“Well, just a couple of days after you brought Spike home, one of those men had a tantrum of some kind. Says here that he was angry about the detail he’d been given while Spike was gone. He punched his superior and then had a screaming fit at Professor Walsh.”

“I can’t say I blame him for that part, Will. I’ve been tempted to scream at her more than once myself, and that was long before the Spike thing.”

“But you didn’t do it and he did. He was going to be court-martialed and discharged for insubordination, but he disappeared.”

“So…this guy knows Spike and maybe has a grudge against the Initiative.”

“Exactly. And I’m thinking about that missing tracking device. Wouldn’t he have had the chance to steal it and then he would have been able to find Spike and steal him, too, right?”

Xander thinks about this for a few moments. It makes sense, but…. “Why would he take Spike, though?”

“I dunno. Maybe….Oh, oh! Maybe because Walsh will be really pissed if Spike disappears, and her project will be ruined.”

Shit. Shit. “If that’s true…. God, if that’s true he probably dusted Spike right away. Because what would he need him for? God, Will….”

“But you didn’t find any…dusty piles in your house.”

“Nothing vampire-sized, no.”

“I don’t think he’d go to the trouble of taking Spike somewhere else just so he could kill him there. That wouldn’t make any sense, Xander.”

His head is spinning. Is it worse for Spike to be gone forever, or for him to have spent the last few weeks being…Christ knows what by a sadistic fuck with a grudge?

“You still there?”

“Yeah. Just thinking. Not good thoughts.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“What’s his name, Will?”

“Turner. Michael F. Turner. I’m bringing up a picture of him now, and…hmm.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t look very nice.”

Xander laughs. “None of them are very _nice_. What does he look like?”

“Really bad complexion.”

Xander flashes suddenly to the soldier who’d taken him to see Spike after the demonstration. The one who’d leered at him as he went in to talk to Spike. Fuck. Is that who took his vampire?

“Xan, I’m going to do some homework on this guy, see if I can track him down, okay? But it’ll take some time. I’ll call when I have something.”

“Thanks, Will.”

“I love you, Xander Harris.”

It takes a couple more days, but then she does find out more about Turner. She finds out he’s from Georgia, but hasn’t lived there for years. He has a credit card, and shortly after he disappeared he used it at a gas station in Omaha, and then again in Ogallala. There was a motel charge that night in Cheyenne, then one the next night in Boise. And finally, there were a bunch of charges in Portland—over a week at a Motel 6 on

Powell Boulevard, some gas, a hardware store. The last charge was at a gas station the day Spike was taken. There were no charges at all after that.

“So it has to be him, Xan. He must have spent the week checking you out, trying to figure out a good time to snatch Spike without you being there. I looked up that Motel 6, and it’s really close, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. And that stretch of Powell isn’t exactly a tourist destination.”

“I’m going to see what else I can come up with on him. There must be vehicle registration, maybe more charge cards. We need to find out where he went after that day.”

“I think maybe I’ll do some poking around here, now that we know where he stayed.”

“Okay. I’ll fax you Turner’s picture. That might help if you’re going to go all private detectivey.”

“No fax machine, Will.”

“Sure there is. I hooked one up for you while I was there. It’s in the guest room. Don’t pick up the phone when it rings in a minute.”

After he hangs up he heads straight for the spare room. He hasn’t been in there since Willow went home. Sure enough, there’s the machine sitting on top of the dresser. The phone rings a couple times and the machine starts beeping and whirring. Yes, there he is. Mr. Clearasil.

He calls Willow on his cell phone. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Talk soon, Xan.”

He decides to make himself look as presentable as possible for this. He showers and shaves and puts on the stupid suit. It hangs on him now; he’s been lean and muscular for years, but since Spike’s been gone he’s grown nearly gaunt. He doesn’t have time to do anything about his hair, either. It’s become long and shaggy. So he just combs it as neatly as he can.

He’s never tried anything like this before, but as soon as he walks into the motel lobby, he has a good feeling that this might actually work. The dark-skinned girl behind the counter smiles prettily at him and asks, “May I help you?” But she’s no girl. Sure, her hair is artfully arranged to hide her third eye and the green scarf around her neck camouflages her breathing slits, but he knows a Dsaret demon when he sees one. And he also knows that Dsareti are highly unlikely to do anything scary—unless shameless flirting and innuendo count as scary.

Xander pastes his most winning smile on his face. Time to put the demon magnet thing to good use for a change.

“Oh, I bet you’re _very_ helpful,” he says.

Her eyes light up. Dsareti really live for this kind of thing. “I can be, sir. Depends what kind of help you need.”

He moves in against the counter and leans toward her. “Well, it’s sort of a special kind of assistance I need today.”

“How special?” And she leers at him.

He pulls out the fax and lays it on the counter. “I need some information about this guy. His name’s Michael Turner and he stayed here a few weeks ago.”

She glances at the paper. “I don’t know, sir. We get so many visitors here. They just go in and out, you know? Going and coming.” She twirls a lock of her long black hair on a finger.

He can’t keep a straight face, but that’s okay. She just grins back at him. “Hmmm. But if you could remember this particular guy, I’d really appreciate it.” He waggles his eyebrows. You really can’t overdo it with these demons.

She giggles and takes a closer look. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, sir. I aim to please. Yes, I remember this man. He stayed for several days. He was not very nice.” And she actually pouts.

“No, he’s a bad man. Now me, I can be bad, too. But only in a good way.” Another eyebrow wiggle. Okay, he admits it. This is actually kind of fun.

“Oooh. But I know how to deal with bad boys.”

“I’ll just bet you do. Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He was sharing his room with another man. A very handsome man.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No, I’m sorry.

“Can you describe him?” She looks slightly hesitant, so he creeps his hand up next to hers and lightly strokes the back of hers with his index finger.

“He was white. Very tall and muscular. Sort of sandy, straight hair. Pretty smile. There was something off about him, though. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“And a very pretty finger it is,” Xander says, petting the digit in question.

She has dimples, he notices. And perfect, milk-chocolate colored skin.

“Do you know where they were headed when they left?”

“No, sir. But I can look up their vehicle information if you like.”

“Oh, I like. I like very much.”

She taps away at the computer for a few minutes. “Here we go. Black Chevy Tahoe. Iowa plates.” She writes something on a piece of paper and slides it across the counter toward him. It’s a license plate number.

He picks up her hand in both of his and kisses it. “Thank you, my dear. You have been so very”--another kiss--“helpful.”

She raises one eyebrow at him. “Are you sure that’s the only kind of help you need today?”

“I would love to explore all of your helpful talents, but I’m afraid my boyfriend is waiting for me.” And that’s really almost the truth, isn’t it?

She pouts again. “Oh, it never fails. The good ones are always gay.” She sighs. “Well, if you should change your mind….”

“You’ll be the very first to know.”

Her smile returns. He gives her a little wave and leaves. That was an amusing interrogation, at least. And he got a little useful information out of it. He has a potential plate number, and he knows Turner isn’t alone. He thinks about the demon’s description of the second man, and a thought comes to him.

No, it couldn’t be.

He needs to talk to Willow.

Willow is in class when he calls her and he paces anxiously around his house, waiting for her to call back. When the phone rings, he pounces on it.

“Xan? I got a—“

“I need you to look something up for me.”

“Okay. Ooh! Your information-gathering at the motel must’ve gone well. Did you have to get all dark and threatening and pound it out of them?”

Xander suppresses a snicker. “Something like that. I got a license plate number. And I found out Turner’s got a partner.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure. But I need you to do some research on someone. He was in the Initiative when I was.”

“Sure, Xan. What’s his name?”

“Riley Finn.”

It’s past midnight when she calls him back, which means it’s the middle of the night back in Boston. But clearly Willow is onto something. She’s talking a mile a minute and Xander wonders how much caffeine she’s consumed.

“Xander, this Riley Finn guy was in the Initiative like you said, and it looks like he was really close with Professor Walsh. Sort of her right hand man. She even had him TA for her class at UC Sunnydale.”

Xander hadn’t gotten along with Finn and had stayed as far away from him as possible, but he remembers a few things about the asshole. He was always hovering around Walsh.

“So, Xan, she was working on some sort of project—the Adam project? Do you know anything about that?”

“Just a little. It was another of her twisted plans. Some sort of demon-human-robot thing. Trying to make the perfect soldier. She was spending a lot of her time on it when I was there. Hacking up some of the demons we caught for spare parts.” And that was a memory that would have happily remained repressed forever.

“Finn was helping her with it. In fact, I’m not sure about some of these notes because I think some of them are in code and there are a bunch of medical terms I don’t know and some of them are pdfs of handwritten notes and they’re not organized at all but—“

“Take a breath, Will.”

“—but I’m pretty sure Finn actually was _part_ of the Adam project. Like, she was doing some kind of treatments on him.”

“So what happened?”

“They had some sort of falling out. This was…not too long after they sent you to England, I think. He was going to be court-martialed and dishonorably discharged.”

Xander whistles. He can’t imagine Finn away from the Army, or even away from Walsh. It was his life.

“And then, Will?”

“There’s a psych report in here. They decided he was mentally unstable—the doctors couldn’t agree on a diagnosis but they all agreed he was nuts. So they gave him a medical discharge instead.” This doesn’t surprise Xander at all. There was always something…unsettling under Finn’s farm-boy surface.

“So just like Turner, he’s got a grudge against Walsh.”

“Yep. And after that, he sort of drifts around, it looks like. I’ve got addresses for him all over the country. And some police records—he’s spent some time behind bars.”

“What for?”

“Umm…disorderly conduct, battery, aggravated battery, another disorderly conduct. Hmm…he had a warrant in Texas for sexual assault, but it looks like he skipped town and never went to court on that one.”

“Where is he now?”

“Lemme see. Last known address was in Reno about a year ago. Can’t find any credit cards…Oh! But here’s a bank account. Just a sec….”

Xander taps his finger impatiently on the counter. And then he hears her gasp.

“Xander! Late in the afternoon that Spike disappeared Riley Finn made a big withdrawal from a bank in Medford. That’s about…275 miles south of Portland.”

Xander makes a small noise in the back of his throat. It might be a groan.

“There’s no activity after than, Xan. Maybe if…if I dig around some more I can find out where they went next.”

“I know where they are,” he says flatly.

“Xander?”

“They’re in Sunnydale.”

He needs to clear his head. Somehow, he needs to get to Sunnydale, which is 800 miles south of here, and rescue his Spike. Oh yeah, and wipe the floor with those fuckers Turner and Finn.

He needs backup.

Willow can’t do it. She can do magic with a computer, but when it comes to good old fashioned hand to hand carnage, not so much.

“Todd? Xander. I’m ready.”

He doesn’t have a plan.

But by nine the next morning, he and Todd are five miles in the air, somewhere between PDX and LAX. Xander has been telling Todd everything he knows about Turner, Finn, and Spike.

“So how do you know they’re in Sunnydale, Xan? I mean, I know they headed south, but….”

“They’re there. They took him to the Initiative base.”

Todd looks confused. “I thought that was in Nebraska?”

“It is now. But back when I was one of them, and Finn was, too, they were in good old Sunny D. Under good old Sunny D, in fact. It makes sense—if you want to deal with demons, head right for the source. But there was a mass escape there. Spike was one of the escapees, actually. That was the first time they’d caught him. Anyway, after that, they abandoned that base and moved to a better one in Omaha.”

“So the base is just sitting there, empty?”

“Not empty anymore.”

“But why would they take him there?”

“Because…that was Finn’s home. The center of his existence. Plus, the place is already set up for…dealing with vampires.” Xander turns and looks out the window. He doesn’t want to think about how the Initiative deals with vampires.

Todd rips open his bag of peanuts and pours most of them into his mouth. “Okay, I guess I can understand that. And I understand that they’d take Spike to fuck up Walsh’s plans. But—I’m sorry, Xan, I have to ask it—why would they want to keep Spike alive?”

“Undead,” mutters Xander.

“Why would they keep him undead?”

“I don’t know. Just so they can…play with him, I guess. They’re both monsters. Or…oh, crap.”

“What?”

“They know the Initiative can track him. As soon as they fix their tracking thingy, that is.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re trying to lure Walsh’s people there. Fuck. They’re going to be expecting armed company.” Xander bashes his head against the seat back behind him.

Todd doesn’t say anything for a long time. He finishes his peanuts and then eats Xander’s too. He fiddles with the tray latch. He smiles charmingly at the brunet flight attendant, who smiles back and brings him more peanuts. And slips him a piece of paper that reads, “Jose 214-555-6319.”

Finally, he turns and looks at Xander. “So, my friend, do you have a plan?”

“We rent a car. We drive to Sunnydale. We neutralize Finn and Turner. We take Spike home. That’s my plan.”

“Just one or two small holes there, Xander.”

“Just one or two,” Xander agrees, and closes his eyes.

They end up with a white Chevy Cobalt. Which isn’t heroic in the least but it was cheap. Xander swears his way through LA traffic and Todd plays with the radio.

“When’s the last time you were in Sunnydale, Xan?”

“When I left the Initiative. Eight years ago.” He flips off a middle-aged woman in a gold Lexus, who just cut him off.

“No urge to visit the old hometown?”

Xander laughs, and it’s not a happy sound. “Not a lot of good memories there, Todd. Lots of death, mayhem, and slayage.”

“Are your parents still there?”

“Who knows? I haven’t talked to them since my dad threw me out of the basement when I was late with the rent.”

“No other ties to the place?”

“Everyone I care about either died or left. Even my old girlfriend, Anya. I told you about her—the ex-vengeance demon?”

Todd nods.

“After I enlisted she broke up with me and took off. She married some lawyer in LA. Still sends me Christmas cards.” He honks and nearly rear-ends a delivery van. “Fuck! We’re never going to get there!”

But they finally do. They stop at the outskirts of town and check into a Holiday Inn Express. It’s new.

In their room, Todd lies down on one of the beds while Xander paces. “Okay. We need weapons of some kind. We need to find a way to get close to Spike without getting killed. If Spike’s…incapacitated, we need to find a way to get him someplace safe. Shit. We better do this after dark. I don’t want to rescue him just so he gets incinerated.”

Todd is staring at the ceiling. “What kind of weapons were you thinking?”

“I dunno. Christ knows what they’ve got. Turner could’ve lifted anything before he left Omaha, and there could be all kinds of shit still buried down there. The Initiative cleared out kinda fast and didn’t spend much time on salvage.”

“Xander, I’m a pretty good fighter. You’ve seen my teeth, right? Claws, too. And I’m fast. But not faster than a gun.”

“Not faster than a speeding bullet? Yeah, me either.”

He’s making his zillionth circuit of the room when inspiration strikes. “Angel’s mansion!”

Todd sits up. “Huh?”

“Angel. He was this vampire my friend Buffy dated—“

“Wait! Wasn’t she the vampire _slayer_?”

“Uh-huh. But Angel was different. He had a soul. Well, most of the time.”

Todd looks like he’s going to ask more questions, but Xander holds up his hand. “It’s a long story. And not important. Angel lived in this house on

Crawford Street. When Buffy went away to college, Angel left, too. And his place just sat empty, at least as long as I was here. If it’s still empty, I’m thinking maybe he left some weapons stashed there. It’s worth a try, anyway.” And it would be nice to feel like he was doing something besides twiddling his thumbs.

The shortest route to

Crawford Street would take them within a couple of blocks of Xander’s childhood home. So Xander drives a longer route instead, cutting through downtown. Looks like the Bronze is still there.

When they get to the mansion, it’s obvious that it’s uninhabited. The yard is a weedy mess and most of the windows are boarded up. In any other town, he supposes squatters would have moved in by now. But in Sunnydale, homeless people tend to get eaten, and those that don’t are probably too savvy to invade a master vampire’s lair. Even if the vampire’s been missing for years.

Xander kicks in a side door and they enter the house. The dust and cobwebs are thick, and there are only a few pieces of furniture scattered around, but the house itself appears in good condition. They decide to split up so they can search the big house more quickly. Even so, they have been there over an hour and they’re both filthy, when Todd shouts from what used to be a spare bedroom. Xander runs to join him.

Inside the closet is a large wooden chest. It was locked, but Todd had managed to break it open. It contains a large variety of weapons: stakes, crossbows, axes, a couple of short spears, and a few miscellaneous other items. “Too bad Angel didn’t have an Uzi or two,” Xander grumbles, but they each grab an assortment anyway. Xander’s particularly taken with a double-bladed trench knife with a ridged black handle. He straps the sheath around his chest and immediately feels a little better.

They search the house a while longer, but they don’t find much else that’s likely to be of use. Xander snags a dusty maroon blanket off of a bed, though. It might protect Spike if he has to be out in the sun.

Back at the hotel, they take turns showering and changing their grubby clothes. Todd suggests that they ought to eat something, so they order a pizza. When it arrives, though, Xander only picks at it. His stomach is clenched as tight as a fist.

Todd swallows a bite of pepperoni. “I was thinking, Xan.”

“Yeah?” Xander is seated at the little desk, systematically ripping a hotel brochure into tiny pieces.

“With the weapons we have, we need to get close to those guys without getting shot or something.”

Xander nods. “Too bad we don’t have a cloak of invisibility. Wouldn’t that come in handy?”

“Since we don’t have a cloak, I have an idea.”

Xander perks up at this. “Let’s hear it.”

“As far as these guys know, you’re a demon hunter, right? I mean, they don’t know that you actually care about Spike, do they?”

Xander considers this for a moment. “No, probably not.”

“So what if you convince them that you want Spike back so you won’t get in trouble for him going missing on your watch? Tell them you haven’t told anyone he’s gone yet.”

“And they’re just going to hand him over to me because I say pretty please?”

“Nope.” Todd smiles at Xander. “You offer them a trade.”

“What do I have to trade?”

“A brand new demon for them to play with. Handsome devil, too.”

But Xander has jumped up. “Fuck no! I’m not going to—“

“It’s all a trick, Xan. They’d never trade Spike for me, anyway, because I won’t get them their revenge against the Initiative. But they don’t necessarily know that you know that.”

Xander’s head is starting to hurt.

“Look, Xander. You pretend you caught me. It should be enough to get us close to them, and that’s what we need, right?”

Xander’s pacing again. He’s going to wear a track in the carpet by the time this is through. But try as he might, he can’t think of anything better. And he’s not willing to wait around for inspiration to hit him—every moment he delays is another moment Spike’s in the hands of those sick fucks.

“Okay,” he sighs, finally collapsing on his bed. “So how do we make you look like my prisoner?”

“We need some chains, and…is there a store in town that sells bondage gear?”

Xander snorts. “Are you kidding? This is Sunnyhell. There were half a dozen when I lived here. Not that I ever would have shopped at a place like that or anything.”

Todd raises one eyebrow.

“Oh, okay. Maybe once or twice. Anya was, um, adventurous.”

So they head out toward the center of town again, and this time Xander pulls up in front of Devil’s Playground. It used to be the best stocked place in town, and from the looks of things, that hasn’t changed. Todd gets slightly distracted in the Batteries Required aisle, but they eventually find what they’re looking for. Xander pays for a leather collar and leash, as well as a pair of handcuffs that look impressive, but actually can’t hold up to a Stadnent demon’s strength.

Back in the car, Todd pulls the collar out of the bag and looks at it admiringly. “Can I keep this when we’re done?”

[Chapter 14b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6105.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)


	18. Chapter 14b: Finding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 14b: Finding**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 14b: Finding  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**Again, it's nearly midnight here, so I'm posting a new chapter. It's another two-parter.  
The story's almost done. I'll post Chapter 15 on Monday, and then the last three on Tuesday.**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

They spend some time going over the details of their plan and then, shortly after sundown, they’re ready to go. Xander drives them to the woods on the outskirts of the UC Sunnydale campus, where he knows there’s a hidden entrance to the base. He parks as close as he can—about fifty yards away.

Nobody’s around. Summer break has just begun and the campus is nearly deserted, and this corner of campus is rarely visited anyway. But they do spy a very interesting vehicle parked just up the road. It’s a black Tahoe. Iowa plates.

Fuck.

Xander takes several deep breaths.

As soon as they get out of the car, Todd starts to strip. His skin glows white in the moonlight. His entire body sort of shimmers, and then…he’s changed.

Xander had only had a brief look at Todd before, and he’d been pretty freaked out at the time. Even now, it’s difficult to see clearly in the dim light. Todd’s general body shape hasn’t changed much—he’s still compactly muscular. Now his entire body is covered in iridescent green scales, though, and he has that ridge of red spines on his head. His eyes are lidless and slightly slanted, his ears are gone, and his nose has flattened, although the metal ring is still there. His genitals have…disappeared.

Todd catches Xander staring and laughs sibilantly. His tongue is long and forked. “It retracts into sort of a skin pouch. It pops out again when I need it.”

“Oh,” Xander says, nonplussed. “Neat.”

Todd holds up the collar and Xander moves in close to put it on him. “Are you sure this wasn’t all some plot to tie me up?” Todd asks.

“I have the feeling that wouldn’t really have taken much plotting,” responds Xander, sliding the buckle into place. Impulsively, he plants a small kiss on the demon’s temple. His skin is warm and papery, and he smells like coffee and cinnamon. Like Todd.

Todd turns his head and grins a very sharp-toothed grin. Then he holds his hands behind his back and Xander snaps on the cuffs. Finally, he attaches the leash to the collar, and they start walking across the pine-needled ground.

Todd can’t carry any weapons, but at least he comes naturally armed with a set of long, slightly curved talons, as well as needle sharp teeth. Xander, on the other hand, has crammed a small arsenal into his jacket pockets. The knife is strapped around his chest, a jackknife’s in his back pocket, and a smaller blade is stuck in one boot. He’s as ready as he’s going to get.

The ground around here is disturbed, as if people had been walking back and forth through it quite a lot. The disturbance gets more noticeable as they approach a large shrub that’s growing against a boulder. Xander and Todd squeeze between the bush and the rock, and there it is, just as Xander remembers. A metal trap door set into the ground.

Carefully, Xander lifts it and then drops down into it. Todd is right behind him.

They’re in a small, empty concrete room. The floor is covered in muddy footprints. Xander’s relieved to see that the overhead lights are on. He’d brought a flashlight, but he’d rather have decent light for this. There’s a single door set into one wall. He opens it and they walk through.

The smell in the corridor is enough to make him gag. Unidentifiable piles litter the floor here and there. Xander has the feeling that anything or anybody that died during the escape was just left here to rot.

It’s a big place and they don’t want to wander around aimlessly, risking running into Finn and Turner by accident. So Xander grabs the trailing end of Todd’s leash, smiles at his friend, and shouts, “Hey!! Anybody home?”

They walk slowly down the hall, both of them trying to avoid looking at the debris too closely. After a couple minutes, he yells again. “HEY!! I said, is anybody home?”

They hear running footsteps.

Xander and Todd stop. Todd positions himself behind Xander, as if he were an unwilling prisoner. Xander pulls out his cell phone and stands with it open in his hand.

A moment later, two men come careening around a corner. They are each carrying a Beretta, and the guns are pointed at Xander and Todd. Great.

The men stop several yards away, and Xander gets a good look at their faces. Yep. Turner and Finn. Turner is wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt. Finn is fully dressed, though, in jeans, a sweater, and boots.

“Xander Harris?!” sputters Finn.

Xander smiles. “One and the same. Riley Finn. It’s good to see you again, back on our old stomping grounds.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I come in peace. So you can put the nice guns away, because see? Cell phone here. I push one button and the U.S. Army will come and join your party.”

Finn and Turner exchange looks. Xander hopes his bluff is good enough. They may be expecting some of Walsh’s people, but they probably don’t want an entire battalion on their doorstep.

Turner lowers his gun slightly. “What do you want?”

“I came to offer you a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yeah. You stole my vampire. I can understand why. It’s loads of fun.” He leers, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. “But I want it back now. So I’ve got something to trade.” And he yanks harshly on the leash, causing the Stadnent to stumble forward a few steps.

Finn and Turner stare at the green demon. Xander runs his hand possessively down the side of Todd’s face. Todd hisses and snaps at him, just missing his fingers, and Xander laughs. “Pretty, huh?”

Turner makes a face. “What do we want with a fucking _lizard_?”

“Oh, it’s better than a lizard. Demon, change!” and he yanks the leash again. Todd hisses and ripples, and then he’s standing there, naked, in his very human-looking skin.

Turner sucks in his breath and Finn’s eyebrows rise. Todd naked is a very fine sight indeed, and, Xander suspects, from these men’s perspective, Todd naked and bound is even finer.

“So, what do you think, guys? New pretty demon to play with, and it’s all yours for the low, low price of one used vampire.”

Turner frowns at him. “Why do you want the vamp back so bad?”

“It’s only a loaner, you see, and its actual owners are going to get pretty upset with me if I don’t return their property.”

The other men look at each other again, and Xander can practically read their thoughts. Of course, even better, Todd can actually read their feelings. He falls to his knees, which is a signal they’d agreed on earlier. It means Turner and Finn are going to take the bait.

Xander knows that, given the opportunity, the men will kill him and take Todd. His job is to make sure they don’t get that opportunity.

“All right,” Finn says. “The vampire’s…not in such great shape anyway. We could use a new toy.”

Inwardly, Xander screams, but he keeps his face still and emotionless.

“Follow us,” Finn says.

Xander tugs on the leash and Todd rises to his feet. Turner moves around behind them, still carrying his gun, and Xander follows Finn. Todd stays very close to him—they want to make sure the men won’t shoot Xander for fear of hitting Todd.

They walk for a while, nobody speaking. The smell is horrible. Xander wonders if they get out of here alive, if he’ll ever be able to wash the stench off of him.

They turn a corner and the hall here is quite narrow. Finn stops in front of a closed door and pulls a big ring of keys out of his pocket. He starts to fumble with the lock, his right hand still holding the gun, but Todd hisses once more. Okay, that’s another signal.

And then lots of things happen all at once.

Turner and Finn both lunge towards them, Finn dropping the keys as he moves, and Xander and Todd move close together. Todd ripples and changes again. As the former soldiers raise their guns, Todd yanks his wrists apart, breaking the manacles and bringing his claws in front of him. Xander drops the leash and the phone and reaches for his trench knife with his right hand, while his left hand heads for the small switchblade in his back pocket.

Then Xander loses all track of Todd and Turner, as he roars and launches himself at the big man.

Gunshots ring out, but nobody seems to be hurt.

Xander hears hissing and snarling and ripping noises from behind him, but he’s busy concentrating on the mountain of muscle that is about to collide with him. Finn is on him before he can fully draw either knife. Xander brings his left arm around and grabs for the gun, just as Finn bashes his left fist into Xander’s ear.

Then he falls, or Finn falls, and suddenly they’re rolling around together on the floor. And not in the good way.

Xander is bending Finn’s wrist, still trying to get him to drop the gun, and Finn is pounding away at Xander with his other hand. Xander’s feeling dizzy and there’s a roaring in his head.

Finn is on top of him now, using his greater weight to pin Xander to the ground. He tries to choke Xander, but can’t get a good enough grip one-handed, and won’t let go of the pistol.

Xander _bites_ Finn’s neck, tearing away a mouthful of flesh, and Finn howls. Xander somehow has time to think that one, Finn tastes awful; two, he wishes he had sharper teeth; and three, he’s been hanging out with demons too long.

Finn smashes his huge heavy head into Xander’s face, and Xander feels a sharp pain. There goes that nose.

Xander knees at Finn’s balls, and Finn howls again very satisfactorily.

Then there’s another bang, and a line of fire blasts through Xander’s left leg.

Xander lets go of Finn with his right hand and squeezes his hand in between them. He pushes, then feels his palm wrap around plastic. He releases Finn completely.

Finn rears up and starts to aim the gun, just as Xander unsheathes the knife and sinks it up to the hilt in Finn’s chest.

Finn freezes.

Nerveless, his hand drops the gun.

And with one loud groan, Finn collapses on top of Xander.

Xander quickly scrambles out from underneath him. He pulls a battle axe out of his inside coat pocket and cautiously kicks Finn over onto his back.

A huge gout of blood blooms from the wound in Finn’s chest. His eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

Riley Finn is dead.

Now Xander turns.

Todd is on his knees, still green. Turner is also on his knees, his shoulders pressed to the demon’s chest. Todd’s arms are wrapped around the man and he’s holding a razor-edged claw against his throat. Todd appears to be in pretty good shape, but Turner looks…chewed up. When Todd grins at Xander, his teeth are bloody.

Xander grins back humorlessly.

He takes a step towards Finn’s fallen gun, but the resulting pain reminds him of something. Oh yeah. He got shot.

He looks at his leg. His jeans are shredded, and so is a good bit of his skin, but it looks like the bullet only grazed the outside of his thigh. Fine. He can deal with it later.

He sticks the axe back in his jacket and scoops his phone up from the floor. Then he picks up the gun and points it at the ground. Todd tightens his grip around Turner, and Xander sees a small line of blood appear at the man’s neck.

“So,” Xander says. “Where’s my vampire?” His voice sounds thick and liquid. He swallows a throatful of blood.

“Don’t…don’t let it kill me!” Turner whines.

Xander moves in close and crouches inches in front of the man, ignoring the complaint from his wounded leg. He holds the gun against the side of Turner’s head. “I’m going to kill you myself if you don’t tell me where he is right fucking NOW!”

“Okay! Okay! I’ll take you to it!”

Todd stands, dragging Turner up with him. Xander looks around for something to tie Turner up with and spies Todd’s leash, which is still hanging from his collar.

“Can I have this, please?” he asks, and reaches for it. He unhooks it and, with Todd still holding his talon against their captive, binds the man’s hands tightly behind his back.

“Are you okay, Todd?”

“Yeah,” answers the demon. And sticks his long forked tongue out of his mouth and licks a spot of blood off Turner’s face. Turner screeches. “How about you, Xan?”

“I’ll live. Know any good plastic surgeons?”

Todd finally lets go of Turner and stands back a little. Xander nudges the man between the shoulder blades with the Beretta. “Vampire. Now.”

“Xan? What about him?” Todd points toward Finn.

“Dead. He can rot here with the rest of the monsters. It’s where he’s always belonged.”

And with another shove from the gun, Turner leads them down the hall.

They haven’t walked very long when they stop in front of a closed door. There’s a set of keys on the floor right next to it. “It’s in here,” mumbles Turner.

Xander picks up the keys and starts trying them in the lock. On his third try, the lock turns. He opens the door.

It’s a tiny room.

A small, naked figure is huddled in the middle of the room, unmoving.

Xander turns to Todd. “Do you know how to use this?” He holds up the gun. When Todd nods, he hands it to him. Todd presses Turner down onto his knees and holds the muzzle to his head. He nods at Xander again.

Xander enters the room.

Its body is skeletal, and its grey, papery skin hangs in strips from its shredded back. The light from the hallway reflects off of glistening muscle and bone. It is dirty as well, its body plastered in dried blood and God knows what kinds of filth. It is chained to the walls and floor in some complicated fashion and its head is tucked down to its chest. Its hands…oh Christ, its _hands_…are chained behind its back.

Xander whispers, “Spike?” but there’s no response at all.

Slowly, he crouches behind the creature and touches its shoulder lightly with his hand. It flinches, curls into itself slightly more.

Xander shuffles around a bit, trying to see its face.

Oh, dear God.

His face.

Spike’s face.

Xander cries out. With a shaking hand, he reaches out. He brushes just the tip of one finger against the jutting ridge of cheekbone.

Spike flinches again.

Xander still has the keys in his hands. He stands up suddenly, finds a likely key, and starts unlocking the chains from the wall. As soon as he does, Spike falls forward. He doesn’t move again as Xander finishes.

Then Xander removes the cuffs from Spike’s ankles. He takes off the cuffs on Spike’s wrists as well, and detaches the chain that connects the cuffs to…oh, fuck…whatever they’ve shoved into his body. He gingerly rolls the vampire onto his side and unhooks the chain from his collar. And then he…oh fuck, oh fuck…unfastens the chain from the ring in Spike’s mangled cock.

He bends down again. He gathers Spike into his arms and cradles him, trying to touch him in places where he isn’t injured. But there _aren’t_ any places where he isn’t injured. So he stands, and he could weep just from the unexpected lightness of the vampire he carries.

He feels Spike vibrating and realizes Spike is trembling, his muscles rigid with fear. He bends his head and whispers in his ear, “Shhh. It’s all right, Spike. It’s Xander. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be all right.” But Spike doesn’t respond at all.

He wants to remove the muzzle from Spike’s mouth. He wants to bathe his broken body in his tears. He wants to fall to his knees and vomit.

But he walks slowly, steadily, trying not to jostle Spike more than necessary.

Todd has changed back to human form and he is still standing with the gun against Turner. Todd’s face is a mask of horror.

Turner is glaring at him with his lip curled.

“Let’s…let’s get out of here,” Xander chokes.

“What do you want to do with him?” Todd asks softly, nudging the pistol against Turner.

Xander feels his battered face harden. And his broken heart. He glances down at the precious, terrified burden in his arms. He inches toward Todd and hands him the keys.

“Turner, walk into the room.” He says it calmly. When Turner hesitates, Todd hits him lightly with the barrel of the gun.

Turner stands and walks inside.

“Todd, lock his ankles in those cuffs.” He can see Turner think about struggling, but Todd pushes him quickly to his knees and, before the man can make the decision to act, Todd has him fettered.

“Wrap a chain around him, please.” Todd does, securing his arms against his body. Todd padlocks it tightly.

“Now attach that to one of those hooks in the wall, so that he’s stuck on his knees.” Todd quickly complies.

Xander looks at the bloody, shackled mess that had kidnapped, raped, and tortured his vampire. He feels nothing but coldness.

“C’mon, Todd,” he says.

As Turner starts to yell, Todd walks out of the room without a backward glance. He shuts the door behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of screaming. Carefully, he locks it. He pockets the keys.

The he follows Xander back down the hall.

[Chapter 15a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6301.html#cutid1)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)


	19. Chapter 15a: Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 15a: Healing**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 15a: Healing  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**I'm running a little early with this posting. A really long chapter, so it's in two parts.  
Tuesday I'll post the final three chapters!**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

     The walk back to the car takes centuries.

It’s not that Xander’s feeling too much pain from his wounds right now; he isn’t feeling any at all. And it’s not that Spike is too heavy to carry. He seems to weigh no more than a small child. It’s just that Xander is afraid to hurt him any worse, yet also afraid that every minute that passes brings Spike closer to dust.

Finally, though, they’re there. Xander delicately lays Spike on the back seat and then slips in after him, nestling the tense but inert body against himself. Todd throws on some clothes and hops in the driver’s seat. Xander passes him the key.

“What do you want to do, Xan?”

“Let’s….Oh, fuck. Take us back to the hotel, okay? I’ll take him up to the room and…I don’t know. Try to help him. Then can you go to the store and pick up a whole bunch of first aid supplies?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t know what we’ll need. Bandages. Sharp scissors. Painkillers? I don’t know what works for vampires. Um…I don’t think infection is an issue, but I’m not sure, so maybe some antiseptic. And anything else you think might help. Splints. His fingers….”

“Okay, Xan. I’ll stock up.”

“Thanks, Todd. And…shit. We need blood. Lots and lots of blood.”

“I don’t think they’re going to have that at the drugstore, and butchers are going to be closed now.”

“He needs human. It heals him better. Umm…Willy’s! There used to be a demon bar, Willy’s Place. I’ll give you directions. I bet he could hook us up.”

As they’re talking, Xander unbuckles the straps around Spike’s head and unhooks the chains that attach the muzzle to his collar. Bit by bit, he draws it out of the vampire’s mouth, realizing only gradually the size of the grotesque thing. At last Spike’s mouth is completely free, and Xander throws the gag as far from him as he can. Spike’s mouth still gapes open as if he’s afraid to close it, or maybe he’s forgotten how.

Todd is driving quickly and Xander’s trying to shield Spike from the worst of the bumps. Spike is at least partially conscious, but clearly has no idea who he’s with or what’s going on, and he’s not responding to Xander’s voice at all.

Desperately, Xander strokes his scarred brow, wishing he could pet the fear and tension right out of him.

Spike whimpers deep in his throat and turns his face slightly toward Xander’s torso. He inhales, then again, more deeply. Then he freezes, not even breathing any more.

 

****

_Pain. Hunger. Cold._

_Always pain hunger cold._

_Only pain hunger cold._

_???_

_New?_

_New pain._

_No no no no no please no—_

_Moving._

_Carrying._

_Where?_

_Moving._

_Warm?_

_Mouth? _

_New…new smell._

_Smell like…_

_Like…_

_Xander?_

****

 

They arrive at the hotel very quickly. Xander jumps out as soon as the car is stopped and, as gently as he can, pulls Spike out and into his arms. He’s walking toward the door when Todd lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Xan? Ummm…the front desk clerk?”

Shit. Even in Sunnydale, people might ask questions of a hotel customer carrying what appears to be a naked, brutalized corpse. “Can you grab that blanket for me?”

Todd drapes the red quilt from Angel’s house carefully over Spike, completely covering him. Xander looks down. Well, that looks marginally less suspicious, anyway. He starts walking again, but again Todd stops him.

“Your face, Xan. You look, uh, noticeable.”

Oh, yeah. His face. Not to mention his shredded, bloody pants leg.

“Todd, can you go in first? Maybe distract the clerk while I get Spike upstairs.”

“Sure.”

As they reach the door, Todd puts on his most charming smile. Xander knows his friend can be pretty damn distracting if he wants to be. As soon as he sees that the clerk is deep in discussion with Todd, Xander scuttles in the door and toward the elevator. He heaves a sigh of relief when he gets in without anybody seeming to notice him.

Up on the fourth floor he’s trying to figure out how to get the door open with his hands full of vampire, when Todd comes sprinting up behind him. “Hang on. I got it.” Todd unlocks the door.

When Xander gets in the room, he stands uncertainly, not sure where to put Spike. Todd darts around him, though, and yanks the comforter off of one of the beds. Xander lays Spike down on the clean sheets and tosses aside the camouflaging blanket.

Spike lies motionless on his back, and Xander just stares down at him. In the bright lights of the room, he has all too horrifying a view of Spike’s condition. He can’t fathom where to begin. Todd stands next to him, his handsome face set in grim lines.

“Oh, fuck,” the demon whispers.

They’re both frozen.

Finally, Todd turns to Xander. “I’m gonna go get that stuff now. Can you give me directions?”

Xander has a hard time focusing. It’s taking most of his energy to not break into hysterics. But he gives himself a little shake and walks over to the desk. He scribbles on the pad of paper there for a moment and then hands it to Todd.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Xander can only nod as Todd walks out the door.

Spike suddenly twitches a little, and that sparks Xander into action.

He dashes into the bathroom and yanks towels out of the rack. He uses them to line the bottom of the tub, and then he turns the water on nice and warm. There’s good water pressure and in a matter of minutes the tub is nearly full.

He walks back into the main room and tenderly scoops the vampire into his arms again. Spike doesn’t resist, but his muscles are tense, and he doesn’t react to the quiet crooning noises Xander makes.

Very slowly, Xander lowers him into the tub. He flails a bit at first, but stops when he seems to realize that his head will remain above the water. His brows are furrowed and he’s panting heavily. He looks as if he expects a hard blow any second.

Xander kneels at the side of the tub, paying no attention to the pain in his leg or the blood that flows sluggishly when his movements reopen the wound. He gazes at Spike.

He knows a lot about how to destroy vampires. His first had been Jesse, whom he inadvertently staked when he was only fifteen. Since then, he’s staked and decapitated plenty of them. Once he eliminated an entire nest of them—ten or twelve, he thinks—when he found the old house where they were staying and managed to expose them to sunlight as they slept.

He doesn’t know jack about healing them.

That’s not true.

He does know _one_ thing.

And he reaches for his back pocket.

 

****

_It’s a trick._

_It’s either a trick of his mind or a trick by the humans. He doesn’t know which, and he doesn’t care._

_Because right now, it feels like someone is holding him in strong arms, and that someone smells like Xander. _

_Whatever the source of the illusion, he’s happy to keep it._

_Now it feels as if he’s being carried again, and someone has covered him with something warm and dusty. Something that smells very faintly of…_

_4315?_

_Oh, it’s such a comforting fantasy!_

_He’s placed on something…something soft. And smooth. Then…nothing. _

_Xander?_

_Where’s his imaginary Xander gone?_

_But then he’s being carried again, and put down in—_

_No! Not the ice again, please God, not the ice._

_But his head is above water. He can still breath. And the water is warm. Hot almost. It’s lovely. Even in his dream he’s blind and deaf and hurting, but the cold is finally receding from his bones and the unutterable filth that covers him is floating away._

_Two calloused hands tip his head back against the edge of the bath._

_Turner! No! He won’t allow Turner to enter this delusion._

_But—oh. Xander. Xander’s calloused hands. Gentle._

_The hands move away, but just for a moment. Then one of them is lightly stroking the side of his face, and the other is pressing against his mouth, except—_

_Oh, good Lord._

_Blood._

_It’s a wrist that’s pressing against his mouth and the wrist has been cut. And the wonderful, wonderful blood is flowing between his lips and onto his tongue and trickling down his throat. And it’s warm blood, delicious blood,  live blood._

_Xander’s blood._

****

Xander drops the jackknife on the floor and touches his sliced wrist against Spike’s parted lips. For a moment, Spike does nothing. Then his entire body shudders and he moans and begins to suck on the wound.

Xander hopes he doesn’t vamp out and sink in his fangs. Not that he’s worried about the pain. He’s just concerned that one good jolt from the chip in Spike’s head might be all it takes to dust the fragile vampire.

Spike moans again, and it’s such a raw, erotic sound that, despite the situation they’re in and the condition of his body, Xander feels his cock twitch. The feeling of that soft mouth against his skin, drawing on him…he wonders what it would be like to be fed from while they fucked. And he knows he’s really fucking sick because Spike is horribly injured and he shouldn’t be thinking about sex right now, but _Jesus_.

He’s starting to feel a little light-headed.

And then Spike lifts his arms out of the water and, with a sigh, uses his forearms to gently push Xander’s arm away.

“Spike?”

He doesn’t respond.

He must still be desperately hungry—why did he stop?

Xander looks down at his beautiful vampire’s eyes, which are sewn shut with crude, ugly stitches. His skin is crusted with old blood and dirt and fuck knows what else. His scalp is shaved again. Deep lacerations run across his cheeks and chin, and one across the bridge of his nose. His left cheekbone is dented, as if it has been crushed by something heavy.

Xander can’t bear to look at the rest of him right now.

He reaches above the tub for a washcloth and, after dampening it the sink, dabs it softly against Spike’s face. Spike winces when he touches an especially sore spot, but doesn’t otherwise move. He’s breathing in short, shallow pants.

As Xander finishes cleaning Spike’s face, Spike works his mouth open and closed a few times. He swallows. Then, in the very tiniest of whispers, “Xander?”

“Oh, fuck, yes, baby. It’s me.”

Spike doesn’t react. It occurs to Xander that with his nose in the state it is, his voice may be unrecognizable. So he tries again. “It’s really me. It’s Xander. Just busted my nose. As soon as I get some scissors I’ll fix your eyes and then you’ll see.”

But Spike just continues facing forward with a look of desperate longing.

And then it finally occurs to Xander that sight might not be the only sense those fuckers stole. So he leans in, rests one hand on a bony shoulder, and brushes his lips against Spike’s damaged lids.

Then he’s almost tumbling backwards as Spike scrambles upward and, half falling out of the tub, throws his arms around him.

Xander pulls Spike the rest of the way out of the water and onto his lap. He wraps his arms around Spike as well, and the two of them clutch at each other and rock. Spike is whispering, over and over: “Xan Xan Xan Xan Xan Xan….” And they’re both sobbing and Xander is probably crushing Spike painfully, but Spike doesn’t seem to care, just as Xander doesn’t care that he’s getting soaked and his sore nose and swelling eyes are against Spike’s hard skull and Spike’s jutting hip is digging into his bullet wound.

He has his vampire and that’s all that matters.

They huddle together for a long time.

Finally, Spike pulls back a bit and tries to run his hands over Xander’s face. But his fingers are far too mangled to move properly, and so instead he rests his forehead against Xander’s.

“Are--are you real?” he asks.

Xander nods, causing Spike to nod as well.

“This isn’t a dream?”

Shake.

“Please…please. Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

Xander sobs again and, in answer, he holds Spike tightly, covering his battered face with more tiny kisses.

He feels the vampire relax against him. But then he realizes that Spike is shivering, his bare, damp skin rapidly cooling. Keeping one arm still wrapped around Spike, Xander twists around and pulls the bath plug. When all the dirty, tepid water has drained away, he turns the tap back on. He strokes Spike while he waits for the tub to fill, trying to avoid the worst of his injuries but unable to stop touching him.

As soon as the tub fills, he lifts Spike back into it. Neither one of them wants to break contact, though, and so Xander keeps his hands on Spike’s chest, petting slowly.

Spike suddenly looks even weaker and more drawn, and Xander realizes that all the movement and emotional turmoil must be taking a toll. He hopes Todd gets back soon with more blood. He still can’t quite face dealing with Spike’s wounds, and, until he gets some supplies, there’s not much he can do anyway, other than remove more of the grime.

He turns Spike’s head to one side and uses the washcloth to work away at the crust of blood and gook that fills his ear. When the ear is clean, he kisses the delicate shell and peers inside. And he sees something, deep within the canal. He curses his thick fingers, but he’s at last able to gently dig the thing out. It’s a heavy rubber plug of some kind. He turns Spike’s head the other way and repeats the procedure on the other ear.

“Can you hear me now, Spike?” he asks quietly.

“I can…Xander? Your voice….”

“It’s okay. Just got banged up a little is all.”

“Xan? Please? What—what’s happening? The soldiers….”

“The soldiers are dead, baby. Nobody’s going to harm you again.”

“Not—where are—Xan? What….”

Spike’s voice is fading. He looks so small and…damaged.

Xander says softly, “We’re going to fix you all up, and then you can have all the answers you want. But rest now, okay? Just…rest. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

Xander rubs one hand in little circles on Spike’s shoulder and rests his own head against the side of the tub. He’s exhausted.

 

****

_Exhaustion is pulling him under, and he badly wants to succumb to sleep in the warmth of the bath and with Xander’s soothing caresses. But he fights it, afraid that he’ll awake to find Xander gone again._

_If this is real, he doesn’t understand why Xander would come to him, why he would once again replace his misery with comfort and kindness. He doesn’t understand anything, really._

_But he wants to make sure and tell the man something. In case this is the last he sees of him, he wants the man to know._

_“Xander?”_

_“Shhh. It’s okay.”_

_“Xander, please. Have to….Thank you. Thank you for caring for me. For everything. I’m not….I know I’m a monster, yeah? But I still feel. And…thank you.”_

_His voice is cracked and rough. He knows he isn’t making any sense, and he wants to scream in frustration at his sluggish brain. But maybe Xander understands, because he leans in again, holds his face very close, and says, “I know, Spike. And… you, you matter to me, baby. I think I might love you.”_

_And as the vampire gasps in shock, he feels those warm lips against his._

_****_

 

Xander and Spike both startle at the hiss coming from the doorway.

“Jesus, Xander! What did you do?”

Todd is staring at Xander’s wrist, which has long since stopped bleeding, but where the deep laceration is still very vivid.

Spike cringes against the far side of the tub.

Xander rubs his shoulder again. “It’s okay, Spike. It’s just my friend Todd. Remember? You called him my demon boy?”

Spike still looks fearful.

“He’s helping us. He helped rescue you. And now—“ Xander glances at the bags in Todd’s hands—“he’s brought you some blood and some stuff to tend to your injuries.”

“Hi, Spike,” Todd says softly. “Sorry I yelled just now. I was…surprised.” And he glares a little at Xander.

Xander stands up and reaches for one of the bags, and then his knees buckle and he has to catch himself on the sink to keep from falling. Todd drops the bags and darts forward to help steady him.

“Xander, you’re not going to be much help to Spike if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

Xander wants to argue, but it’s patently obvious that Todd is right. He turns and looks at himself in the mirror, and then wishes he hadn’t. He looks like roadkill. He sighs.

“Okay, okay. Let…let me get Spike out of the tub first, and then I’ll put myself back together, all right?”

Todd nods skeptically. “You’ve, um, lost a lot of blood. I’m going to go find you something.” And before Xander can argue, he’s out the door.

Xander pulls the plug again. “Spike, let’s get you dried off and someplace more comfortable.” He helps Spike sit up, then wraps a towel around his shoulders. He lifts him, smothering a groan as his leg complains. Then he carries Spike to the bed and sets him down. He uses the towel to finish drying him and pulls the comforter off the floor and over Spike’s body.

Todd comes bursting back into the room. He’s juggling two plastic bottles of orange juice and a large package of chocolate chip cookies. He smiles at Xander. “Hooray for vending machines. Now take your pants off and let me get a look at you while you have this stuff.”

Todd has to help Xander ease his pants off. “You just wanted to get me naked, didn’t you?” he jokes lamely. Todd just looks at his thigh and shakes his head. Xander seats himself heavily on the other bed and guzzles some juice while the demon fusses with towels and antiseptic and bandages. Xander looks morosely at the growing pile of dirt and blood-encrusted linens. “Housekeeping’s going to think we’re serial killers or something.”

It turns out Todd has a knack for first aid. Just another of his many skills, of course. Soon Xander is in reasonable condition, although he won’t be winning any beauty contests any time soon. He’s drunk all the juice and eaten the cookies, and he does feel better. Spike appears to have fallen into a fitful sleep.

Todd watches over the vampire while Xander takes a quick shower. Then, as Todd has his own turn at washing off the grime off himself, Xander carefully burrows into the blankets next to Spike. He wraps himself around the vampire’s tattered back, taking care to disturb him as little as possible. Within minutes, he’s asleep too.

 

It’s not the best way to wake up.

His leg and face hurt like hell, and his eyes are badly swollen. A terrified vampire is clinging so tightly to him that it’s hard to breathe. A scaly green demon is glaring down at him and waving a plastic object that’s playing the theme from _Mission Impossible_.

“Stupid,” says Todd. “You never called Willow.”

Xander groans and, extricating one arm from Spike’s grip, reaches for the phone. “Spike, it’s okay,” he mumbles. He flips open the phone.

“Hi, Will.”

“Xander! You’re alive! Where are you and what happened and why didn’t you call, and I was so worried and did you find Spike and—“

“Willow!” There’s silence on the other end. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was just…really tired. We’re at a hotel in Sunnydale. Spike’s here with us.”

“Are you hurt, Xander? Your voice—“

“Yeah, yeah. I broke my nose. I—“

“Oh, Xan!”

“It’s no big deal.” No way is he going to mention the gunshot wound right now. “Look, it’s going to be okay. Spike…Spike’s in bad shape.” He kisses the top of Spike’s head. “We’re going to get him well enough to travel, and then we’ll head home. I promise I’ll call with all the details soon, all right?”

“You’d better, mister!”

As he hangs up, he has a horrible thought. “Oh shit! The window!” He tries to jump out of bed, but he’s still tangled with Spike and then Todd is pushing him firmly back onto the mattress.

“It’s fine. I took care of it.”

Xander looks over and sees that the there is a heavy blackout curtain, and that Todd has taped it to the wall so that no sunlight can creep in through the edges.

Todd sits on the bed next to Xander. “I also told the front desk that we don’t want to be disturbed at all.” Xander looks down at himself and then at his companions. A beat-up human, maimed vampire, and lizard demon, naked on the bed together. Yeah, might surprise the maid.

He throws his arm around Todd. “Thanks, man. You—thanks.”

Todd grins at him and stands. “You guys hungry?”

Shit! He never even gave Spike more blood before they passed out. He leans down and kisses Spike’s head. Spike has crawled halfway into his lap and has his arms twined around Xander’s waist. He’s still trembling.

“Todd got you some blood. I’m going to get it now, but you have to let go. I’ll be right back.”

 “You—you won’t leave?”

“I just travelled 800 miles and nearly got myself killed to get you, Spike. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Reluctantly, Spike unwraps himself.

Todd has crammed nearly a dozen bags of blood into the mini-fridge. There’s a carton of eggs, too, and that puzzles Xander for a minute, and then he remembers. He hands the carton to Todd and then pulls out a couple of the bags.

Todd opens the egg crate and then looks at Xander. “Um…you’re sure this isn’t going to gross you out? I can go in the bathroom if you want.”

Xander waves the thick red fluid around a bit. “Really, eggs are not gonna bother me.” Todd takes out an egg and Xander watches curiously as the demon breaks a small hole in one end with a sharp tooth and then sucks out the contents. Xander shrugs. To each his own.

He walks back to the bed, where Spike is huddled on his side, and sits next to him. He lays his hand on the vampire’s arm. “Hey. Think you could sit up to drink this?”

Spike nods, and Xander puts the bags down for a moment so he can help get Spike propped up on some pillows. Then he places one of the bags in Spike’s lap, but Spike just sits there. “If you want to switch to your bumpy face, you could probably slice that open with your fangs.” He glances down at Spike’s hands and adds, “I’ll hold it for you.”

Spike shakes his head mournfully. Then his face crunches, but when he raises his head and opens his mouth, Xander gasps. “Oh, those fuckers!” He lifts his fingers up and traces the edge of Spike’s lips. “Will they grow back?”

Spike shrugs and shifts back to his human face.

Xander remembers the short knife he’d stuck in his boot yesterday. “Be right back, baby,” he says, and finds the knife. He also gets one of the plastic drinking glasses from the bathroom. He sits on the bed again and unwraps the cup, then slices open the blood bag and pours some of the contents into the cup.

He holds the cup for Spike as the vampire drinks. The blanket has slipped down and he can see that, despite the ruinous condition of Spike’s genitals, he’s getting hard. It looks horribly painful, but Spike is focused on his feeding.

When the cup is empty, he refills it. And again. Wordlessly, Todd brings two more bags over, and Spike polishes those off, too. He gives a deep sigh as Xander finally takes the cup away. “”Just let me know when you’re ready for more, okay.”

Spike nods.

“Did you get it from Willy’s?” Xander asks Todd, who’s back in human skin and sitting on the other bed now.

“Yeah. And I gotta say, for a small town, this place has a pretty wide array of demons.”

Xander chokes out a laugh. “You have no idea, my friend.”

Spike is looking a little better. He’s filled out a bit already, and some of the shallow cuts and scrapes have begun to close. He looks slightly more relaxed, too, although he’s clearly still very nervous and in pain.

Xander fetches the bags full of supplies from the drugstore and dumps them onto the bed. Todd had gathered quite an impressive collection. “Spike, I want to patch you up some. Anyplace in particular you want to begin?”

“Yeah, please. Can you….My eyes. Please?”

“Of course.” Xander finds a pair of small, very sharp scissors, no doubt purchased with this very use in mind. “I think….How about if I hold your head in my lap?”

“’Kay.”

Xander shuffles them around until he’s staring down at Spike’s face. He’s suddenly aware that he still has no clothes on, but he’s not about to dislodge Spike again just so he can get dressed. Besides, Spike seems settled quite comfortably. In fact, a little _too_ comfortably. “Baby, you need to stop rubbing your head like that. You have to be really still for this. And you’re distracting me.”

Spike stops moving. Xander picks up the scissors, takes a deep breath, and begins painstakingly removing every one of the hideous black stitches. Eventually, one lid is free, but Spike is having trouble opening it. It’s gummed shut. “Todd, could you please bring me a damp washcloth?”

Xander rubs the cloth oh-so-gently against the eye. Soon he’s rewarded with a flash of blue. But then Spike hisses in a breath and tenses.

“Xander!” He reaches a mutilated hand towards the man’s face, but stops short of actually touching him. “You—you’re hurt!”

Xander catches Spike’s wrist and gently kisses his knuckles. “Nothing serious. Just ugly. Now let me do the other eye.”

Spike frowns but doesn’t say anything as Xander snips at the threads, and then coaxes the other eye open as well. He looks anxiously down at his patient. “Can you see okay?”

Spike blinks a few times and then looks around the room, frowning in confusion. He tenses again when he spies Todd, who’s still unclothed and on the other bed, but Todd smiles at him. “Hi, Spike. Remember me?”

“Xander’s demon.”

“Well…I really think _you’re_ Xander’s demon now. I’m his friend, though.”

Spike remains frowning but the tightness in his muscles eases a little. His eyes flit around the room. “Wh-where….”

“The Sunnydale Holiday Inn.” Spike looks at Xander blankly.

“Sunnydale, California. It’s where I grew up. It’s where we met, the first time. The Initiative used to have a base here. That’s where Turner and Finn were holding you—the old base.”

“Not—not the place where, where I was before?”

“No. That’s the Initiative’s newer base, in Nebraska.”

“But…why? I don’t….”

“Turner and Finn got kicked out of the Initiative. They kidnapped you because they were trying to get some sort of revenge against Professor Walsh.”

Even though it obviously takes enormous effort, Spike sits up and twists around so he’s facing Xander. “You didn’t….” He swallows and closes his eyes. Then he opens them and looks straight into Xander’s. “You didn’t give me back?”

Xander is stricken. It hadn’t occurred to him that Spike would have thought he’d abandoned him.

“Oh, God. No, Spike! I never would have…. Jesus, you thought I’d just sold you out. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Tears start to slip from Spike’s blue eyes. “Y-you meant…when you said you’d dust me….”

Xander pulls Spike into his arms. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t think! I came home, and you were gone. And it took us so long to find you.” Now he pushes Spike away a little, locks his hands onto the thin shoulders, gazes earnestly into azure pools. “I would _never_ give you to those bastards. And I won’t dust you, either. We’re going to find a way to let you be free.”

Spike suddenly slumps forward against him and he carefully eases the vampire onto his back. He’s so weak. But he’s still looking up at Xander in amazement. “You came for _me_? To rescue me?”

“Yeah. I told you. You’re important to me.”

Spike blinks away his tears and reaches for Xander, then remembers his useless hand. Xander catches it and kisses it again.

“Look, Finn and Turner are gone, baby. We’re holed up in this hotel, but I’d really like to get you in good enough shape to get you home. Okay?”

Spike nods shakily.

Xander picks up a big tube of Neosporin. “Good. I think…I think a lot of your wounds are going to heal on their own. But I’m going to put some of this gook on them just in case.” He opens the tube and gently smears the gel over all of the open sores on Spike’s chest and arms. Spike’s eyes never leave his face. Then, as carefully as possible, he rolls Spike onto his side and treats the injuries on his back. He’s glad Spike can’t see him wince as he touches bare muscle and bone.

He’s noticed a light whistle in Spike’s breathing, and there are massive bruises all over his torso. “I think some of your ribs might be cracked. I’m going to wrap them so they’ll set right, okay? Probably be more comfortable, too.”

Todd stands up. “Want some help? It might be a two person job.” Xander smiles gratefully.

Xander maneuvers Spike into sitting upright, and, while he supports the vampire, Todd wraps Spike’s chest tightly with bandages. Then they settle him back down against the pillows.

Todd says, “Xan? You think you need me more right now?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks. Why?”

“I thought I’d go out and pick up some food. A demon can’t live on eggs alone, and you haven’t eaten much at all.”

“That sounds great. Thanks.”

“Anything else you need while I’m out?”

Xander thinks for a moment. “Clothes! Spike doesn’t have any, and mine will be too big. Could you get him something really soft and comfortable for the drive home?”

“No problem. Spike, any color preferences?”

Spike blinks at him. “Uhh…black.”

Xander snorts. “Some things never change!”

Todd throws on some clothes and leaves as Xander stares unhappily at Spike’s fingers. He cautiously lifts a hand in his. “I need to splint these before the bones set like this.”

Spike nods solemnly.

“It’s gonna hurt.” But not as much as it hurt when those fuckers busted them, he bets. He sees the fingernails are gone, too. He finds a package of small wooden splints and a large roll of surgical tape. He sits on the bed and places Spike’s right hand in his lap.

“There’s probably other people around. So…you might want to yell, but—“

“You can put the muzzle on me.”

Xander shudders in horror. “No fucking way. Just, um, see if you can keep the noise to a minimum, all right?”

One by one, he straightens and splints Spike’s fingers. Spike has his jaw clenched tight, and occasionally moans a little, but is otherwise silent.

Xander finishes the right hand and begins on the left. “You used to like to paint your fingernails black. It went with the whole punk thing you were doing. You bleached your hair white, too, and gelled it back.”

“Yeah?” says Spike through gritted teeth. “How did I look?”

“Like the big bad. Devilishly handsome in a retro kind of way.” Xander grins at him and he’s not sure, but _maybe_ the corner of Spike’s mouth twitches a bit.

Spike whimpers over a particularly bent middle finger. “I don’t know what I look like.”

“Well, at the moment you look almost as pretty as me.” Xander gingerly touches his own puffy face. “When we get home I’ll take a picture of you. Willow gave me a digital camera for my birthday last year, and I recently learned that digital works for vamps.”

There’s definitely a very small twitch this time.

“Okay,” he says, setting Spike’s hand down on the bed. “That doesn’t look very comfy, but if you drink your blood, I bet we can take them off in a couple of days. Do you need a break, or should we move on?”

“Get it over with, please.”

“Gotcha.”

Grimacing, Xander pulls the covers down to Spike’s thighs. His abdomen isn’t too bad, actually, now that it’s less concave and the welts and slices are fading.

But his groin.

He’s probably been shaved at some point, although now the curly golden hair has mostly grown back.

A large metal ring has been inserted through the thickest part of Spike’s cock. The incision points are stretched and torn, as if someone has been pulling roughly on the ring. Which is exactly what someone has been doing, Xander thinks grimly. The foreskin has been cut raggedly off, along with a good bit of the other skin on the shaft. Deep cuts and indentations criss-cross the entire organ.

Cautiously, he lifts Spike’s soft cock to get a better view of his scrotum. His balls are swollen and the hairless skin looks pinkish and new. Xander doesn’t want to think about what that means.

Suddenly, without planning to, Xander bends down and kisses the tip of Spike’s cock. Spike inhales sharply. “Xander!” he cries gutturally. Xander replies by ghosting his lips the length of his shaft and across the soft skin of his sac. Spike moans and Xander sees his cock start to fill and lengthen.

Okay, probably not a good idea right now.

He lifts his head. “Sorry, baby. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll kiss you better later.”

Spike makes a strangled sound.

“The ring…I’m gonna need my tools to get that out. Will you be okay with it until we get home?”

“Yeah,” Spike says. He’s panting a little. “Doesn’t hurt.”

Xander isn’t sure whether he means the ring or the kissing, but in any case he wants to finish the doctoring and get more blood into Spike.

“I want to get that thing out of you. Okay?”

“Yeah, please, Xan.”

Xander has a Leatherman tool in the front pocket of his shredded jeans. He goes to get it and flips open the wire cutters. “We’ve done this before. Spread your legs, please.”

Spike bends his knees and places his feet—shit, his feet! Okay, we’ll get there—wide apart. But the angle still isn’t right, so Xander slips a pillow under his hips. The thing invading Spike’s body looks monstrous. He wonders how long the vampire has had to endure it.

Working very carefully, he clips the chains that attach it to Spike’s piercings. “Okay, Spike, I’m gonna pull it out now.” He grasps the large ring with his finger, remembering how Finn and Turner had used it to chain Spike to the wall. Very slowly, he draws outward. He’s horrified when the dildo just keeps coming. Jesus Christ, how big is it? Finally, though, it’s removed, and Spike heaves a sigh of relief. Xander wants to burn the awful thing, but instead walks over to the desk and throws it in the trash. Then he returns to Spike.

“Better?”

Spike nods.

“Want me to get rid of those piercings?”

Another nod.

He clips the ring in Spike’s perineum and gently eases it out of his body. Then he does the same on the other ring. Spike’s hole is stretched obscenely wide, and the whole area is red and inflamed. As he did before, Xander dots the area with kisses. Spike whines and pushes up with his hips.

But Xander sits up straight again and looks down at Spike’s legs. They’re bumpy and crooked. Shit. “Spike, are your legs broken?”

Spike lays his legs flat against the bed. “Yeah, I think.”

What kind of shape do you have to be in to not even be sure if your legs are broken?

Just as Xander’s trying to think about what to use for leg splints, the door opens and Todd enters. He’s carrying several bags, and the delicious smell of hamburgers and fries suddenly fills the room. Shit. He’s really hungry.

“How’s it going?” Todd asks, looking at the vampire.

Spike had gone rigid when the door opened, but now he’s relaxed again.

“Progress,” says Xander. “All the bones in his legs are busted. I need to find splints.”

“How about we think about it while we eat?”

“Umm, okay.” Todd hands him a bag and Xander opens it.

Todd takes his bag over to the desk. “Spike, I wasn’t sure if you eat human food, too, so I got an extra burger.”

“Thanks,” whispers Spike.

Xander gobbles his food, alternating his own bites with pieces he tears off and places in Spike’s mouth. But Spike likes the fries best. “Chips,” Xander smiles at him.

As he’s licking the last of the salt from his fingers, Xander has an idea. He goes over to the corner where they’ve stashed the weapons cache from Angel’s place. He pulls two short spears out of the pile. If they can break off the pointy ends, these might work.

“Hey, Todd? Wanna impress me with your demony strength?”

Todd has little difficulty in busting the spears to the proper lengths. Spike eyes them warily as Xander approaches. “Splints, Spike, not stakes.” Xander uses lengths of bandages to tie them to Spike’s legs. It’s not very elegant, but it’s better than having to rebreak the bones if they heal crooked.

There’s really not much Xander can do about Spike’s feet, though. Both of them have huge, ragged holes ripped through the center. So he wraps them thickly in bandages, too, mostly to protect them from jostling.

“Gonna roll you on your side, now, baby. I want to take a look at your beautiful ass.”

That beautiful ass is covered in welts and cuts. Nearly half the skin is missing from one cheek. Xander slathers on more Neosporin and covers the flayed area with a big bandage.

By the time he rolls Spike onto his back again, the vampire is looking like an advertisement for some weird medical bondage. But at least he seems stable, and Xander has some confidence that he’ll heal properly.

He also looks exhausted. But Xander wants him to feed again before he sleeps. So he fetches more bags of blood and holds the cup to Spike’s mouth again, not satisfied until Spike claims he really can’t drink any more. Then he pulls the covers up to Spike’s chin, plants a kiss on his forehead, and tells him to go to sleep. Spike closes his eyes and Xander and Todd watch as his breathing gradually slows and stops.

Only then does Xander look down at himself and realize he’s still nude. Todd sees this and leers at him. Xander sighs and yanks a pair of jeans out of his suitcase, then pulls them on. He has to be careful as he lifts them past his injured thigh.

Todd’s sitting on his own bed now, and Xander plops down next to him. He throws his arm around the demon’s shoulder and pulls him close for a hug. “I don’t know how to thank you, man. You’re…a demon in a million.”

 

[Chapter 15b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6556.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	20. Chapter 15b: Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 15b: Healing**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 15b: Healing  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to  [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**I'm running a little early with this posting. A really long chapter, so it's in two parts.  
Tuesday I'll post the final three chapters!**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

     Xander naps a good part of the day curled around his vampire. The events of the last 24 hours have worn him out, and he’s developed a throbbing headache. Whenever Spike stirs, though, Xander urges him to drink a little more. Spike does, and then falls back asleep.

Todd decides to spend the afternoon exploring a bit. “I’ve never visited a Hellmouth before,” he explains as Xander heads to the bathroom for a long piss.

“What is it, like Disneyland for demons?” Xander asks.

“Something like that. Want me to pick up some more blood while I’m out? Looks like you’ve gone through most of it.”

“Yeah, you’d better. Hang on.” Xander finishes and washes up, then finds the remains of his jeans from yesterday. He pulls out his wallet, then holds a wad of bills out to Todd. “Here.”

“Hey, it’s okay.”

“No, you’re a starving student. Besides, this is Initiative money. I kinda like the idea of the Initiative paying for Spike’s dinner, you know?” Todd takes the money.

“Xan, when do you think he’ll be able to travel?”

“I’m hoping tomorrow night. It’s a long drive, but I don’t want to stick around here longer than necessary.”

“Have you thought about how to get him to Portland?”

“Yeah. I think tomorrow I’ll return the Cobalt to the rental office here in town, and I’ll see if I can find a decent van to buy. At least, decent enough to get us home. Like, a delivery van, you know? So it’ll be dark in back and he can have lots of room to stretch out.”

“Okay. Get some more sleep. I’ll be back later.”

Xander crawls back into bed as Todd leaves.

 

It’s dark when Xander next wakes. Todd is snoring softly in the other bed, but Spike is awake. He has twisted around in Xander’s arms and is staring steadily at him.

“Everything okay, Spike?” he says quietly.

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“You gave me your blood.”

“I thought you could use some pretty quick.”

“You’ve…done so much for me. And you came all this way to find me, and you got hurt, and even then you let me feed from your vein.”

“I liked it when you drank from me. You weren’t hurting me, or the chip would’ve gone off.”

“Why, Xander?”

“Why, what?”

“Why…for me? I’m, I’m _nothing_ Xander. Was a monster, now just bloody…rubbish.”

Xander leans in and presses his lips against Spike’s. When Spike parts his mouth, Xander slips his tongue inside and scrapes it across the roof of Spike’s mouth, drags it along Spike’s blunt teeth. Then he pulls back.

“Even when we first met, when you were trying to kill us, I thought you were…interesting. You were so cocky. You had so much life in you, which is funny, considering.”

Spike just stares back at him.

“And now, you’d had so much shit done to you…you’ve lost everything. Lost yourself! But you’re still kicking, aren’t you? Still brave.” And he kisses Spike’s nose. “And beautiful.” Another kiss, this time on one eyebrow. “And _never_ rubbish.” The other eyebrow now.

“You’re the guy who goes through hell under the hands of humans, and then still gets himself zapped saving me from a Tenrulra. You’re the guy who’s pretty much out of it, starved and in horrible pain, and you still stop drinking from me before you’ve taken too much. Because I would’ve let you drain me last night, Spike. I really would.”

Spike is still considering him, probably uncertain how to react.

“I have a present waiting for you at home, if you want it. Watcher’s diaries. Pages and pages about the bloody adventures of the Scourge of Europe, of which you were twenty-five percent.”

Spike’s eyes widen at that. “Have…have you read them?”

“No. I thought you should first. It’s your story.”

“But…but I was a killer, yeah?”

“Of course. Vampire. Scourge.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“It would have, ten years ago. But I’ve learned since then that everything’s not so black and white. And you know what? You also helped save the world once. And you stuck with your crazy sire for over a century, taking care of her. And I…I’ve done a lot of things I’m really not proud of, and I don’t have a possessing demon or lack of soul to blame for it.”

Spike still doesn’t look completely reassured. “Crazy sire?”

“Drusilla. She’s in the diaries, I’m sure.”

Spike sighs and settles against Xander’s chest.

 

All three of them wake up early the next morning. Xander showers while Todd runs out to bring back some breakfast. When Todd returns with chocolate donuts and coffee, Xander is checking over Spike’s wounds.

Thanks to the large amounts of human blood Xander’s been shoving down his throat, he’s looking much better. His skin has returned to a healthy pallor, if there’s such a thing, and most of the minor bruises and cuts have disappeared. The broken bones will take longer to heal, but Xander thinks that Spike ought to be able to handle the long drive pretty well.

He inhales three donuts and gives Spike a chocolate flavored smooch. “I need to go out and get us a ride, Spike.”

Spike looks alarmed and tries to sit up.

“It’s okay. I’ll be back soon, I promise. Todd will stay here with you and you two can talk about me behind my back. Demon gossip.”

Spike glances over at Todd, who’s standing near the desk, trying to look reassuring. The vampire still appears anxious.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll take my phone, okay? If you need anything, or you just want to hear my voice, give me a call. I won’t be gone long.”

Slowly, Spike nods. Xander kisses him again and then, for good measure, walks over and plants his lips on Todd’s temple, too.

He lucks out at Sal’s Pre-Owned Vehicles. Sal turns out to be a Sohah demon, easily identifiable to the well-informed by the smell of tomato soup that emanates from his body. It’s not entirely a coincidence, actually. Lots of car salesman are demons. Lawyers, too.

Anyway, Sal has a Dodge Sprinter that used to be a FedEx delivery van. It has a lot of miles on it, but looks like it has at least another 800 or so. And Xander knows that Sohahs happen to consider human urine a delicacy, which, well, ewww, but it’s easy to procure. Xander goes into the dealership bathroom and pees in a cup. He leaves the cup on Sam’s desk, hands over his Platinum Visa, and $3,000 and a few signatures later the van’s all his.

The car rental agency is practically next door, which makes returning the Cobalt simple.

He stops at Target next and buys an air mattress, a bunch of pillows, and some blankets. He’s going to make the ride as comfortable for Spike as he can. He buys a lot of snacks. If you’re going on a road trip, you need junk food. And he buys a big cooler, because they’ll need to keep some blood cold for Spike, too.

He’s just pushing his shopping cart to the van when he hears, _daa da da-da daa da. _He fishes the phone out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

The voice on the other end is quiet, hesitant. “Xander?”

“Hey, Spike. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. I just…yeah.”

“I got us a van. It’ll be perfect. I have just a couple more stops to go and then I’ll be there, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You drinking your blood?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Being nice to Todd?”

“He’s telling me about these blokes he met last night. Demons, you know.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that around here. See you soon, Spike.”

“Bye.”

He leaves the parking lot, thinking about demons and Sunnydale, and finds himself pulling up in front of 1630 Revello Drive. The house looks the same as he remembers it. He wonders who lives there now. He’d been stationed in North Carolina when Willow called to tell him that Joyce had died. He was sorry to miss the funeral.

Then he drives over to the Rosenbergs’ old place. Willow’s parents retired and moved to Arizona a few years ago. Growing up, he’d probably spent more time here than his own house. Willow’s folks never paid that much attention to him—or Willow, for that matter. They were always busy with their own lives. But at least they tolerated him, never yelled or—

He pulls away, and a few minutes later, there it is. He takes a deep breath. What the fuck.

And then he’s ringing the front doorbell, and that’s really strange, because he’s always just walked right in before. He hears shuffling sounds and a moment later the door opens.

His first thought is _Grandma Barnes_! But that’s stupid—she died when he was eight. Of course it’s really Jessica Harris standing there in a dirty bathrobe, her hair gray and scraggly, her face pale and lined.

“We don’t want to buy any,” she says, and starts to close the door.

Shit. Maybe it’s the ten hard years that have passed, or maybe it’s just his current wreckage of a face, but she doesn’t recognize her own son. “Mom?” he says, very quietly.

She peers at him through narrowed lids, and then her eyes grow round. “Alexander?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

She clutches at her robe and stares at him. Then, wordlessly, she motions him into the house.

It hasn’t changed much in the past decade, although it’s dirtier and, somehow, smaller. His first grade school picture still hangs crookedly on the wall, six year old Xander Harris grinning with messy hair and his top front teeth missing.

Tony Harris is sitting in his same ugly recliner, watching television. He looks old and gaunt. Sick. He looks up at Xander with an angry scowl. “Jessica, what the hell—“

And then he stops and his mouth falls open as he realizes who this is. He looks Xander up and down and his face hardens.

“Whatever kind of trouble you’ve got yourself in, boy, we’re not going to—“

“I’m not in any trouble, Dad,” Xander interrupts calmly. “I’m doing fine.” And as he says it, he knows it’s true. He has two true friends who he knows would risk their lives for him. And he has Spike, who—well, there are still some hurdles to clear there, but he has Spike.

He smiles. “I’m really doing fine.”

“Then what do you want?” growls the older man.

“From you? Nothing. I was just passing through town, and I thought I’d tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry that the two of you have spent your lives so locked in your own misery that you can’t find your way out. But I did. I finally did.”

His father lurches out of the chair and stomps toward him, fist raised. Xander just looks at the sad, frail man and doesn’t flinch. His father halts, drops his fist, and glares at him. And then he walks out of the room.

Xander turns to his mother, who has started to cry. He walks over to her, leans down, and kisses her cheek. “Bye, Mom,” he says. And he leaves the house, closing the door behind him.

 

When Xander walks back into the hotel room, Spike is sitting propped on the pillow. Todd is next to him, a cup half-full of blood in his hands. Todd has a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and Spike gives Xander such a speculative look that Xander’s a little worried. “What have you two been talking about?”

But Todd merely smiles and shakes his head.

Hmmm. Might want to be careful about leaving the two demons alone together.

“So. I got us a cool ride. I think we’ll be all set to head out come sundown.” He’s left all his purchases in the van, so now he just walks over and drops onto the bed next to Spike. Spike immediately scoots himself over so as much of his body as possible is in contact with Xander.

Todd stands. “Then if you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna hop in the shower. And then I thought I’d take a last whirl around the Hellmouth.”

“Sure, Todd.”

While Todd’s in the bathroom, Xander snuggles up against Spike.

“Warm,” says the vampire happily.

“Is that all I am to you?” Xander teases. “A personal space heater?”

But Spike looks at him very seriously. “No, Xan. You’re…you’re my… everything.”

Fuck.

“Spike, that—that’s gonna change when you’re all healed. We’ll get all that electronic shit out of you and then…then you can have the world again.”

“Don’t want the world, luv. Want you.” And this time it’s Spike who leans over and, only a little tentatively, presses soft lips against Xander’s. Xander reaches and cups the back of Spike’s head with one hand, his other hand resting gently between the vampire’s shoulder blades.

For a long time, they just kiss, chasing the tastes of one another with their tongues. Xander has to stop now and then to take a deep breath, but then he swoops right back in. He trails his mouth down the edge of Spike’s lips and then down his neck, stopping just above the tight collar. He licks at the sore skin there and then presses against Spike’s jugular and sucks softly. Spike moans and rolls his head backwards, then—

Then Todd steps in from the bathroom, still damp and half-dressed. “Oh. Am I interrupting? Sorry.” But he doesn’t look sorry at all as he smirks at Xander and then walks over to grab a shirt out of his open suitcase.

By the time Todd leaves, Xander has caught his breath. Spike is looking at him, his eyes bright and hungry. You gotta love vampire constitutions. But he wants to check Spike over, make sure he really is well enough to bump around in the back of the van for hours.

“Hey, how about a sponge bath? The tub’d be nicer, but I don’t want to get all those bandages wet, and the splints aren’t ready to come off yet. But I can dab some nice warm water on the parts of you I can get at.”

Spike looks disappointed, but nods.

Xander pads into the bathroom. Oh good, looks like Todd called for clean towels while he was gone. He takes a couple washcloths and soaks them in hot water, then returns to the bed.

He begins with Spike’s head and face, wiping away the last bits of crusted blood from around Spike’s eyes and in his ears. He rubs his hand over the nearly smooth scalp. “Gonna grow this back out, baby?”

“Okay, luv.”

Next he works on Spike’s shoulders and arms, where the skin is now nearly unblemished. Spike tries to waggle his fingers and scowls at the splints. “A couple more days then those come off. And I’ll personally paint your nails for you when they grow back.”

This gets him a small smile, which he takes as a major triumph.

He takes his time over Spike’s smooth chest, massaging the muscles that have begun to build up again. Spike closes his eyes and practically purrs. But when Xander bends down and licks one pink nipple, Spike jerks in surprise. Xander licks again, feeling the skin wrinkle and harden, enjoying the clean taste. He closes his mouth around the little nub and sucks, then nibbles gently. Spike jerks again. “Bloody hell, Xan!”

Xander moves his head over now and focuses on the other nipple. Spike groans when Xander sits up again. “Gotta finish your bath,” Xander grins wickedly.

He eases Spike onto his belly. “Your ribs all right?” Spike mumbles something affirmative into the pillow. Xander runs into the bathroom to rewet the cloth, and when he returns, slides it over Spike’s upper back. The welts—they must have been lash marks, Xander knows—are gone, and the skin is again soft as fine silk and almost whole. He’s immensely relieved not to see the whiteness of bone anymore.

He skips most of Spike’s back, which is still wrapped in bandages, and continues his ministrations just above the swell of Spike’s cheeks. When he gets to the buttocks themselves, he carefully peels away the large bandage, thrilled to see that the wound underneath is gone. He wipes in slow circles around the pale globes, then gently parts them. Spike moans loudly as he runs the towel down the crack, dabbing at the now tight and healthy-looking pucker. But when Xander follows a second swipe of the towel with one fingertip, Spike pushes back against him, his chest rumbling.

But Xander simply gives Spike’s cheeks a little squeeze. “Roll over, baby. I wanna look at those feet.”

With Xander’s help, Spike does roll over, but the blue eyes that meet his are less than pleased. Xander ignores them and unwraps the bandages on Spike’s feet. The holes are still there, but smaller, and they look like they’re healing neatly. Besides, it’s not like Spike’s going to be walking anywhere for a while, anyway. Xander re-winds the wounds in fresh bandages.

Now Xander turns his attention to Spike’s groin. Much to his delight, the horrible marks are gone and, although the foreskin has not yet regrown, everything else looks fine. Quite fine indeed, actually, and Spike’s cock is already half-hard.

Xander ducks his head to hide his grin. He gingerly lifts the thickening organ and pretends to examine it. “Hmm…I dunno,” he says. “Still looks a little sore.”

Spike makes a choking noise. “No. ‘S not sore.”

Xander ignores him and pats the area with the damp, warm towel, then rubs up and down just a bit. Spike’s hips jerk and now he’s fully erect.

“Well,” says Xander. “Let me take a closer look.” He puts the towel down and carefully spreads Spike’s legs apart, then kneels between them and bends forward. He blows softly against Spike’s balls, then against the crown of Spike’s cock. The cock twitches, so Xander does it again. Then he lays a feather-light kiss just where the base of the cock joins the scrotum, followed by a series of tiny kisses up the shaft and, finally, on the tip of the glans.

A clear drop of liquid appears and he gathers it with just the tip of his tongue, then pokes into the moist little slit. Spike jumps as if he’s just had a mild electrical shock.

Xander caresses the head of Spike’s cock with his lips. He reaches out with one hand and wraps it firmly around the shaft, moves it up and down a bit, enjoying the way the skin slips over the rigid core. Still moving his fist, he licks delicately at one of the points where the ring enters Spike’s cock.

“Does that hurt, baby?”

Spike says something that sounds like “gah,” which Xander takes as a no. So he laves the other entry point as well, then swipes his tongue to the tip again to swirl it in the pre-come that’s now flowing quite steadily. It’s like nothing he’s tasted before, so he laps at it like ice cream, savoring it. It’s sour and a little metallic and salty. Like sipping a margarita from an iron cup.

His hand is still moving slowly and smoothly, and now he feels Spike begin to rock into his strokes. He licks again, and Spike mewls piteously when he stops. So then he takes Spike’s entire head into his mouth.

Spike gasps. “Xander! Fuck…God, Xan…” One of Spike’s bandaged hands comes to rest on Xander’s hair, and Xander supposes it must be really frustrating not to be able to just grab on.

As Xander matches the movements of his mouth with those of his fist, Spike begins bucking upwards energetically. A steady stream of moans and quiet curses is coming from his mouth, and his breath is rasping loudly.

Without stopping what he’s doing, Xander looks up. Spike has propped himself on his elbows, which probably hurts those cracked ribs a lot. But pain isn’t the emotion written on Spike’s face: his eyes are so widely dilated that the blue is hardly visible, his full lower lip is hanging open, and his brows are furrowed in concentration as he watches Xander.

Xander continues stroking with his left hand, but releases Spike’s cock from his mouth with a loud slurp. Locking eyes with the vampire, he sticks his own right index finger in his mouth and moves it in and out.

When his finger is wet, he removes it from his mouth and pushes it gently against Spike’s entry. Spike shudders and says, “Please…please…” so Xander gradually inserts his finger.

Spike’s chest is now heaving. His collapses flat onto his back and starts fucking Xander’s fist in earnest. His head tosses from side to side on the pillow.

Xander does two things at once. He drops his head back down and swallows Spike deeply, ignoring the annoying way the ring rubs against his throat. At the same time, he crooks the finger inside Spike just so, applying pressure to Spike’s prostate.

Spike cries, “Xan…Xan…Xan…Xan…” and his hips jerk spastically and then he howls and a burst of copper-lime fluid fills Xander’s mouth. He swallows it and continues to milk Spike’s cock until the spasms have passed and Spike has melted into the mattress.

Xander slowly pulls out his finger and then lets the softening cock slip from his mouth, giving it one final kiss before he sits up on his knees.

Spike is staring at him, looking sated and slightly stunned. Xander grins at him. “Told you I’d kiss it better.” The he rolls carefully off to the side, gathering the pliable vampire in his arms.

“Xander…that was…nobody’s ever....Bloody hell, luv!”

“Believe me, it was my pleasure,” Xander replies, and pets lovingly over Spike’s bare flank.

 

At Xander’s insistence, Spike drinks some more blood and then falls asleep. Xander feels at loose ends, anxious for the sun to set so they can leave. His own cock is still hard and neglected, but he ignores it, and eventually it wilts.

He decides to tidy up the room, dividing things into a pile of garbage, a pile of soiled linens, and a pile of stuff that goes home with them. He’s slightly amazed by how much of a mess they’ve made in only a couple of days. Before he forgets, he slips a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet and leaves it on the desk. The housekeeping staff is going to have a tough job in this room.

He’s just finishing up when Todd walks in through the door carrying a pizza and a large cardboard box. Todd looks slightly disheveled, but happy. He plops the boxes onto his bed.

Xander eyes the mussed hair and untucked shirt. “Have a fun afternoon?”

Todd grins. “Yeah. I went to Willy’s to stock up on blood for the trip, and I met this Brachen half-breed. Nice guy. We, um, spent some time together.”

Xander raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well I’m sure you and Spike were completely chaste in my absence.”

“Hey! He’s _injured_! What kind of person do you think I am?”

Spike has woken up and he snorts softly at this. Xander shoots him a look of mock anger.

Todd and Xander dig into the pizza. Xander feeds Spike some of the pepperoni off of his slices, and then can’t resist stealing a kiss. Spike tastes good, and he’s not sure when he decided that blood and spicy sausage are a good combination. By the time they’re all finished, sunset’s not long off.

Xander says, “If you two can behave for a few minutes, I’m going to load up the van and get it ready.” Spike looks worried, so Xander adds, “I’ll just be out in the parking lot. It’ll take ten minutes. Okay?” Spike nods.

Xander takes an armload of luggage down to the van. Then he inflates the air mattress and covers it with blankets and pillows. It looks pretty comfortable. He brings the cooler back up with him.

He and Todd fill the cooler with the rest of the blood, then Todd takes that and their remaining belongings down to the van. Now all that’s left to pack is a naked vampire.

Todd has bought a pair of thick black sweatpants. Fortunately, they’re very baggy on Spike’s thin frame, so there’s enough room to ease them up Spike’s splinted legs. Xander takes the opportunity to give Spike’s ass a nice squeeze before covering it in fleece. There’s a soft black t-shirt, too, and Xander is able to get Spike’s bulky hands through the sleeves with only a little difficulty.

Todd re-enters the room. “I checked us out,” he announces. “We’re good to go.”

Xander scoops Spike into his arms. He’s heavier now, and more awkward to carry because of the splints. But at least he no longer looks like a murder victim, and Xander will be able to convey him to the van without having to hide him.

As they’re about to walk out the door, though, Spike says, “Xan? Did…did you pack that blanket? The one you covered me in when we came here?”

Xander shakes his head. “No, it’s over there.” He inclines his head toward the corner, where the red quilt is piled on top of some dirty towels.

“Could we?”

“Sure, Spike.” Todd grabs the blanket and drapes it over Spike, who smiles at him. Then they head downstairs.

Xander settles Spike in the back of the van. He and Todd agree to take turns driving and sitting with Spike. Xander’s up as first driver. He buckles himself in and slips the van into gear.

“Everybody ready to roll?” Todd and Spike both say yes, so he pulls out of the parking lot, heading for the freeway onramp. Goodbye, Sunnydale. Time to go home.

 

[Chapter 16a](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/7098.html#cutid1)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)


	21. Chapter 16a: Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 16a: Homecoming**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 16a: Homecoming  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt; for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**We're at the end of The Right Tool. Today I'll be posting Chapter 16 in two parts, and then 17 and 18. The last two chapters are very short. Thank you for reading! For news on the sequel, please [check my LJ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6838.html).**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

Spike doesn’t say anything to Xander, but the long drive is hard on his aching bones. He feels every jolt and bump in his legs. The air mattress and pillows help. The maroon blanket, the scent of which he finds comforting, helps, too. But what helps the most is when Todd takes his turn driving, and Spike can cuddle up against Xander and feel the man’s strong arms around him.

He dozes part of the way, but most of the time he’s awake. Xander feeds him more blood and human snack food. He decides he hates the licorice whips—they get stuck in his teeth—but some horrible concoctions called Funyuns aren’t bad. They’re even better dipped in blood, although Xander pretends to be disgusted at that.

Todd and Xander argue over what to listen to on the radio. Spike doesn’t care much for either of their choices, but since he’s not sure what kind of music he does like, he stays out of it.

Finally, they give up on the radio and talk instead. Todd tells about his family, and what it was like growing up as a demon pretending to be human, and about school, and the thesis he’s writing, and his plans for the future. He wants to become a policy-maker and help improve the world. Maybe he will, Spike thinks. He certainly seems competent at everything he tries.

Xander talks about growing up in Sunnydale. His parents were miserable bastards, and Spike wishes he could find them and bite them. And he tells them about Willow, whom he’s known since kindergarten, and Jesse and Buffy, who are dead. Killed by vampires, both of them, but Xander hugs Spike when he says this, and Spike knows that Xander doesn’t want him to feel bad about it.

A lot of the time while Xander’s talking, Spike just watches him. He can just make out his features in the dim light. He looks at the way his sensuous lips curl upwards at the edges, but his chocolate eyes always look a little sad. His hair keeps falling forward into his face, and he brushes it away. Spike wishes he could run his fingers through it, and he flexes his splinted digits impatiently.

Xander has heavy stubble on his face; he hasn’t bothered shaving much in the past few days. Spike likes the rough feel of it when they kiss. He himself never needs to shave. A vampire thing, he guesses, although he wonders why the hair on his head and groin does grow.

There’s so much he doesn’t understand still. Most of all, he doesn’t understand why this man cares about him. Says he matters. Risked his life for him. Fed him his own blood. Makes him feel like maybe, _maybe_ he’s worth something.

Xander says that they’ll find a way to keep him from the Initiative for good. Spike doesn’t really believe this. Deep in his unbeating heart he feels like he’ll always be owned. Xander and Todd may have killed Finn and Turner, but that place was full of soldier boys in green, and he knows eventually they’ll come for him again.

Until then, though, he has Xander, who’s cradling Spike’s head in his lap now and massaging Spike’s temples as he talks. He thinks about what it felt like to have those hands on his cock, to have that _mouth_ on his cock. He’d had no idea how bloody wonderful it was to be on the receiving end of a blowjob, and he certainly hadn’t known what it felt like to have someone focus entirely on making him feel good. Just the memory of it now and he’s getting hard. He hopes they get home soon.

 

The nights are short this time of year, and soon the sun is rising. Todd rigs up a curtain out of a blanket, protecting Spike from the light shining in through the windshield. Unfortunately, this means he can’t see Xander while he’s driving, but Xander doesn’t want to stop. They’re all anxious to get back, really.

So Todd curls up next to him for a while and naps, and Spike takes the opportunity to get a really good sniff of the demon. He smells of paper and coffee and spices. It’s not as nice as Xander’s wood/beer/pizza scent, but it’s pleasant. And Todd’s body temperature is a couple of degrees higher than a human’s, which makes him a good bedmate for a vampire.

Spike can’t fathom why Xander would choose him over Todd, nor why Todd would go to so much trouble to help him. But those are just another two mysteries in an infinite pool of mysteries, so Spike doesn’t trouble himself with them too long.

 

At last, the van slows and they pull into Xander’s driveway. Xander remembers that his truck is at the airport, and he’s going to have to fetch it soon.

It’s early afternoon, no time for a vampire to be outside. So Xander wraps him securely in the red quilt and rushes into the house with him. When they get inside, Xander uncovers him and carries him to the couch. He’s surprised to see that all the coverings are still up over the windows. And there on the little table is his pile of books. The pile of books Xander bought him that night at Powell’s. _Devil in the White City_, the one he’d been reading when he was taken, is on the top of the pile, still open to his spot. His journal is right underneath it. He swallows and tries not to cry.

But a few minutes later, when Xander brings him heated blood in the big tool mug, he really does start to lose it. Xander puts the cup down and folds him in his arms. “Shhh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay now.” Spike rests his head on his human’s broad shoulder.

Todd is standing nearby, and Xander offers to let him stay a while and sleep. Todd says that’s a good idea, especially since he doesn’t have a way home right now. He wanders off, Spike supposes to the spare room.

Xander yawns hugely. “Man! It feels good to be back. I gotta call Willow and unpack the van…but that can wait until later. Want to come to bed?”

Spike nods against Xander’s shoulder. The drive has exhausted him, actually. So Xander picks him up again and takes him into his bedroom. He carefully peels off Spike’s t-shirt and sweats, and then tenderly tucks him under the covers. Spike likes being fussed over a bit, but he’s sodding tired of being weak, and he’s looking forward to healing enough to fuss back.

Xander strips and climbs into bed with him. Spike would really like to show him how much he appreciates him and how happy he is to be home again. But his legs are hurting and he’s so tired and it feels nice just to lean back against that warm, broad chest.

Soon they’re both asleep.

 

Something’s tickling at his ear. He bats at it with his awkward hand, but it keeps tickling. He opens his eyes. Oh. Xander. Xander is dressed and kneeling at the bedside, smiling broadly. He leans over and blows softly in Spike’s ear again.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. Hungry?”

Yeah, he is. He feels like he’s drunk a river of blood since he was rescued, but he supposes it takes a lot for his body to repair itself.

“I’m gonna order in some Chinese and heat you a mugful. Want to go on the couch?”

“Yeah, Xan, thanks.”

Xander pulls back the covers and traces a series of kisses across Spike’s chest. He pokes at the bandages over his torso. “How are your ribs feeling? Think we can get rid of this today?”

Spike considers this for a moment and then, experimentally, he sits up and twists a bit from side to side. No pain. “Feels fine.”

“Good. Let’s eat first, though, okay? Umm…want some clothes?”

Spike thinks about the discomfort and hassle of getting trousers over his legs and shakes his head. “Maybe…just a blanket, yeah?”

“Sure.” Xander gathers him in his arms and carries him out to the couch, where he gives Spike’s arse a nice grope before settling him gently. He picks up the quilt from the floor, where he’s dropped it earlier, and wraps it around Spike’s waist. Spike uses his forearm to lift an edge to his face. He inhales deeply. Yes. Still smells like 4315. He settles back against the cushion as Xander heads into the kitchen.

Before Xander returns, Todd enters the room, sleepy-eyed and tousled-looking. “Hey, Spike,” he yawns, and Spike smiles at him. He likes the green demon. He has a sudden vision of being forced to fight Todd in the cage and he shudders. How many other demons has he killed who could have been, under different circumstances, his…friend?

Xander bounces in looking chipper. “Got some Hunan chicken and sweet and sour pork coming our way. Todd, there’s some eggs in the fridge if you want. Spike, here’s your O-Pos.” He brings the cup over and holds it while Spike drinks. “I’m gonna have to go out tomorrow and stock up. The stuff we had went bad while you were gone.”

Todd shimmers and suddenly he’s scaly again. Spike looks at him with interest—he hasn’t had a really good chance to look at him in this form. He’s kind of pretty, Spike decides. Lots of sharp teeth. But that reminds him of his own fangs, which Finn pulled from his mouth with a pair of pliers. He sighs and Xander rubs his shoulder a little.

“Are they really dead?” he has to ask.

“Yeah, baby. I ran Finn’s heart right through with a big blade.” Spike feels a small thrill run through his body at that. He pictures the look on the bastard’s face as Xander rammed the knife home, and he smiles. Wishes he could have seen it. “And Turner….” Xander looks uneasily at Todd. “Does it bother you, Todd? What I did?”

The Stadnent shakes his head. “No. He deserved it, Xan.”

“No, he deserved worse. But we didn’t have time. Spike, we left that fucker chained up and locked in that same little room where they kept you. So he had a lot of opportunity to think. If he’s not dead yet of thirst, he will be soon.”

Spike shivers again and feels himself getting hard. Xander did that for _him_. He can’t thank him appropriately right now so he just smiles and says, “That’s lovely, pet.”

Xander laughs. “I’m gonna have to remember that. If you want to show a demon you really care, it’s not flowers and chocolates, it’s death and mayhem.”

“Or, in my case, eggs,” Todd says, and heads for the kitchen. He’s back in a few seconds with a Styrofoam carton, and Spike watches him bite, then suck, most of the contents.

Xander pats his leg. “I called Willow. She’s gonna fly out here in a couple of days and see what she can do.”

Spike thinks about the happy, normal-looking redhead in the picture on Xander’s dresser. “Xan? I know she’s your friend and all, but she’s not going to want to help a vampire.”

“She already has, Spike. We wouldn’t have been able to track you down without her.”

“But, why? She, she—“

“She knew you too.” Xander suddenly grins. “You tried to get her to do a love spell, once.”

“Love spell?”

“Yeah. Will used to do some witchcraft. Still does, now and then. Drusilla left you for a Chaos demon and you wanted to get her back. It was kind of…sweet…I guess. In a twisted way.”

“Drusilla....You said she was my sire, yeah?”

“Yeah. You two were together for, like, a hundred years or something. You really loved each other, Spike. She was totally nuts and you took care of her.”

“Why’d she leave me?” Spike remembers the rage he’d felt when he fought the Chaos demon, and now understands where it came from.

“She was angry because you helped Buffy save the world from Angelus.”

“Why’d I do that, then?”

“I dunno. You told Buffy you liked the world. Something about soccer and Happy Meals on legs. I told you, you always were pretty decent for a vampire.”

“Did…did I get Drusilla back?”

“I don’t know, Spike. That was the last time I saw you until Omaha. And nobody’s seen her for years.”

“Oh.”

Xander takes a deep breath. “Look, if you want me to help you find her, I will. I want…I want you to be happy.”

Spike thinks about this. Whatever Drusilla once was to him, she’s nothing but a name now. “’M happy with _you_, luv.”

Xander looks relieved. “You know, those watchers’ diaries are sitting right there.” He points to the stack of books. “You can read all about you and Drusilla and the rest of your family.”

Spike is about to ask Xander whether he’ll read to him, since he can’t turn the pages yet, but the doorbell rings and Xander bounds to his feet. “Food!” he says. Todd ducks discretely out of sight while Xander pays for the delivery, then the two of them sit on the floor next to the couch and dig into the cartons. Xander occasionally places a chopstickful of meat between Spike’s lips, and soon all three of them are full.

Todd stands and stretches and shimmers back into human form. “I should get home.”

“Want a ride?”

“Nah. You stay here. I’ll call Fiona and see if she can come get me.” He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and has a quick conversation with someone.

“I think I’ll just grab my stuff out of the van and wait for her outside, if that’s okay. She’d be thrilled to meet a real vampire, but maybe another time, when you’re feeling more up to it, okay, Spike?”

“This girl—she’s a demon, too?”

“Nope. Fully human.”

Spike is mystified about why a human would be thrilled to meet a vampire, but he can puzzle over that one later.

Xander stands and envelopes Todd in a big hug. “Todd, man…thanks.”

Todd thumps him on the back. “Anytime, Xan. Been a long time since I sank my teeth into someone for a good cause. And Sunnydale was a blast.”

“Did you get that Brachen’s phone number?”

“Yep,” Todd says smugly. Then he walks over and kneels next to Spike. “You’re gonna take good care of Xander, won’t you?”

Spike wants to say that’s ridiculous, it’s Xander who’s stuck taking care of him, but he nods. “I—I owe you, Todd.”

Todd stands and grins. “You can pay me back with scandalous stories about Xander.” And Spike finds himself actually laughing a little. Time was, he’d never thought he’d do that again.

After Todd is gone, Xander cleans up the leftovers and then hovers near the couch. “Want those bandages off?”

He really does. He struggles into a sitting position and lets the blanket fall to his hips. Xander slowly unwinds the tight cloth, and they both heave sighs of relief when the bandage is gone, and when they see that Spike looks whole and healthy underneath. Xander buries his nose in Spike’s sternum, then licks a wide stripe all the way down to his navel. “Mmmm,” he says. “Tasty.”

Spike would like more of that tongue on his skin. But first…. “Can we get these bloody things off, too, pet?” He waves his hands.

“Let’s try one, and see if it’s healed, okay?”

Spike nods enthusiastically. Xander sits next to him on the couch and takes his left hand. He pulls the Leatherman tool out of his pocket and uses it to cut the tape that binds the splint to Spike’s little finger. Then he pulls the small piece of wood away.

Spike wiggles the finger a little. It doesn’t hurt. Looks straight, too. So Xander frees the other fingers. Spike makes a fist and then extends the digits. All fine.

The minute Xander has the last finger on Spike’s right hand undone, Spike’s hands are all over Xander. He runs his fingers through the messy, curly hair. He cradles the back of Xander’s neck and pulls him forward for a kiss, at the same time rubbing his other hand over the back of Xander’s shirt.

Skin. He needs more skin.

Without breaking contact with Xander’s lips, he brings both hands to Xander’s chest, and he’s delighted to discover he has the dexterity to unbutton the shirt. As soon as the buttons are all undone, he slips the sleeves down Xander’s arms, and Xander lets the shirt fall behind him to the floor.

Now he brings his hands lower, and he feels Xander’s hard heat straining at the zipper of his trousers. He rubs against the cotton and metal, and Xander responds by wrapping his arms around Spike, kneading at the muscles along his spine and trailing his fingers along his skin in an almost-tickle. One of them moans into the other’s mouth, but Spike isn’t sure who.

With only a little difficulty, Spike manages to get the button on Xander’s jeans undone, and then he’s pulling down the zipper. He has a flash of memory of using his teeth to undo Turner’s trousers, but then Xander’s calloused hands on the small of his back chase that nightmare away.

He puts one hand inside Xander’s fly, but is surprised when he discovers that there’s more fabric inside. Silk. The silk is tightly stretched and he can feel every bump and ridge on Xander’s fine cock.

Spike breaks his mouth away from Xander’s and nuzzles at his neck instead, wishing he could bite just once and making frustrated little mewling sounds. Xander pushes against his shoulders and locks his brown eyes with Spike’s. “What do you want, baby? Tell me what you want to do.”

And nobody has ever asked him this, so he has to think for a moment, and he’s not thinking too clearly at all right now. Then he decides. “Want to see you, pet. Please?”

Xander stands up and lets his jeans fall to his ankles. He steps out of them, not very gracefully, and now he’s wearing nothing but a pair of red briefs. He starts to pull them off. “No!” Spike says. “Keep them on, please.” Xander stands there then, hands at his sides, and Spike takes a good, long look.

Xander’s hair is a wild tangle and his eyes are dark and shining. The bruising around his eyes is starting to fade a bit, though he still has a large white plaster across his nose. The scar seems more obvious now, as if the other injuries have revived it. Spike’s cock twitches at the sight of Xander’s mouth. His lips are swollen from the intense kissing and curled into a shy little smile.

He has a lot of other scars on his body, too, reminders of claws and blades and teeth. He looks like a warrior, Spike thinks.

Xander’s legs are muscular and sprinkled with dark hairs. There’s another plaster on one of his thighs, a souvenir from Finn and Turner, although Xander has insisted that it’s no big deal.

Xander’s chest is nearly hairless, broad and muscular also, although the ribs are a little too prominent. _Too thin_, Spike thinks. _Need to get him to eat better_. Xander’s belly is flat and a narrow, dark line leads from just below his navel and disappears under the briefs. The outline of Xander’s erection is very clear under the thin fabric, the tip of his cock nearly poking out the top of the waistband. Spike licks his lips.

The blanket has fallen to the floor and now Spike is completely uncovered. He looks down at his own achingly hard length and wishes he could touch it, wishes he could stroke himself slowly and just look at his beautiful lover watch him. The light from the small table lamp glints off the large silver ring.

“C’mere, please, luv,” Spike says hoarsely, and Xander moves closer. “Help me down?” With Xander’s help, he’s able to position himself seated on the floor, his splinted legs sprawled awkwardly in front of him and his back up against the couch. He pulls Xander toward him until the man is standing inches away, then puts his hands against Xander’s muscular buttocks and pulls him even closer, yanks him down a bit, so that his silk-covered crotch is right up against Spike’s face.

Spike inhales deeply, loving the musky, male scent of him. He rubs the tip of his nose against the bulge and pulls back a bit, sees a small, round wet spot over the tip of Xander’s cock. His own cock twitches again and releases its own drop of precome.

Xander rests his hands on Spike’s shoulders for better balance, and now Spike is mouthing Xander through the briefs, tracing the length of him with his lips and then with his blunt teeth. He runs his hands up under the fabric in back and gently squeezes the tight muscles. He moves his mouth down until he’s over Xander’s bollocks, then nuzzles and sucks at the fabric.

Xander groans softly and starts gently rocking his hips. Spike presses in a little harder, feeling the flesh shift under the soft silk. He runs his tongue up and down the shaft, tasting the silk, tasting Xander, too, and now the silk is soaking and clinging so tightly it’s like a second skin. He latches his mouth over the covered crown and Xander’s movements grow a little faster. Spike likes the way the big muscles are flexing under his hands.

But he wants more. He tugs the edge of the waistband with his teeth and Xander’s cock pops out. He keeps tugging until the entire length is exposed and the heavy sac below as well. He licks up and down the rigid rod. “Oh, fuck, Spike…that’s good,” Xander pants, and he has to agree. But he can’t speak because he’s mouthing and nibbling at the crown, and then taking it into his mouth and down his throat. Xander lets out a strangled noise.

 He’s still kneading Xander’s arse in rhythm with his mouth, and Xander starts to move faster. Spike closes his eyes and thinks about how nice it is to have this cock—Xander’s cock—in his mouth, instead of all the abominations that have been forced on him.

Xander’s knees are starting to shake from the strain, and Spike’s cock is throbbing demandingly. He releases Xander with one more slurp and Xander looks down at him, questioning but not commanding. “What do you want?” Xander croaks again, and that phrase alone is almost enough to make him come.

“Want you in me, pet.”

“Spike, I don’t know. Your legs—“

“Please.”

Xander looks speculatively at him, then shakes his head. “Okay. But if it hurts, tell me and we stop.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Xander bends down, and with some difficulty, manages to get Spike balanced in his arms. Spike raises his head up and kisses Xander. God, he loves the feel of Xander’s mouth.

Xander carries him into the bedroom and sets him on the bed, then positions him on his side. Spike hears the bedside drawer open and a moment later Xander is kneeling behind him, rubbing his palms over Spike’s arse, then pressing the side of one hand into the crack. Spike pushes back into him. Now the hands are massaging and spreading and it feels so fucking good and Spike moans.

Xander’s finger runs up and down his crack, then pauses at his hole and rubs in small circles around the edge. Spike wants to spread himself, open himself for his lover, but he can’t with his useless legs. He grabs a pillow and balls it into his chest, groaning into it with frustration and need.

When Xander’s finger presses into him, slick with lube, Spike cries out. He rocks back onto it as much as his legs allow. Soon a second finger is in him, and they scissor slightly, stretching and loosening him.

Xander kisses Spike’s neck just under his ear. “Ready, baby?” he whispers.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Xander fumbles for a moment and then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against Spike, pressing _into_ Spike, and so gradually that Spike could go bloody insane, sinking all the way in. Spike feels Xander’s bollocks and pubic hair against the sensitive skin of his arse and shakes.

“You okay?”

Spike nods his head, too overcome to speak.

It’s difficult for Xander to get good leverage in this position, so he simply pumps slowly and Spike undulates back against him, feeling Xander’s heartbeat and listening to his raspy breaths.

When Xander reaches around and takes Spike’s cock into his rough hand, Spike freezes. Xander stops, too, waiting for him, and Spike lets the wonderful feeling pool in him like honeyed wine.

But he can’t help it—too soon he’s moving again, and Xander is breathing beautiful filth into his ear: “Oh, Spike…so good…so fucking tight… so good to fill you up, feel you all around me…yeah, like that….”

“X-xan…” Spike suddenly sputters. “Want to change. My face. C-can…it’s—“

“Go ahead, sweetheart. You don’t need my permission. Always beautiful to me.”

Spike lets the bones in his face shift, hears them crunch, and then…oh fuck. He heaves faster between the overwhelming sensations. Everything is so much more. The scent of Xander’s warm body and arousal and the sound of his heart and his blood pumping fast through his veins and the feel of his skin and muscle and bone and his hand and his fiery hardness jerkily impaling Spike, sending heat and life into the vampire’s dead core as Xander yells out “Spike, God, Spike!” and Spike howls, and, overcome with the need to bite, Spike tears into the pillow as he comes, his seed spurting over Xander’s hand and the bed.

They continue moving against each other for a few minutes, until the motion is too much against sensitized skin. But Xander doesn’t pull out and Spike doesn’t want him to, so they remain nestled against and into one another for a long time, enjoying the closeness and the solidity of their bodies.

 

Xander calls General Shales the next morning.

He tells him that the vampire isn’t working out very well as a demon fighter, that in the reality of combat he tends to lose focus and get distracted, sometimes forgetting himself and nearly attacking human bystanders. Spike wonders what Shales would think if he knew that Xander was naked and pressed up against the vampire as he was saying these things, playing with the ring in the vampire’s limp and sated penis.

When Xander hangs up, he asks, “You want me to get this out today?”

“You like it, don’t you, pet?”

“Mm, doesn’t matter. It’s your body.”

“’S okay. Used to it. If you like we can keep it for a bit.”

Xander answers by kissing Spike deeply, thrusting his tongue in the cool mouth. Spike reciprocates and discovers his own flavor in Xander’s mouth.

After breakfast for both of them—toast for Xander, blood for Spike, which Spike can finally drink all by himself, thank you very much—Xander showers and dresses. He unpacks the van, carrying an armful of weapons upstairs and dumping most of the rest of the things in the spare room to deal with later. He has to go out and get his truck from the airport, pick up some groceries and blood. They’re both nervous about leaving Spike alone, and Xander offers to call Todd and see whether he can come over for a while. But Spike refuses. “Don’t want a sodding babysitter.”

Xander settles Spike on the couch with a full mug of blood, then brings him a parcel. Spike sees that it’s postmarked from London. He rips it open and finds that pages from books have been photocopied and then spiral bound. There’s an envelope, too, with Xander’s name on the front. Spike hands it to him.

Xander looks tense as he tears it open, but as he reads the note inside, his face softens. “It’s from Giles,” he says when he’s done. “He’s…an old friend. He’s the one who sent me this stuff. I need to call him later, I think.”

Spike is anxious to read the diaries, anxious in both senses of the word, so Xander just kisses his cheek and promises to be back as soon as he can. Spike nods, kisses Xander back, and turns to the book. It begins with a syphilitic whore named Darla.

Spike has no idea how much time has passed when Xander returns home. He’s still deep in his reading. Xander silently brings him a fresh cup of blood, plants a kiss on his slightly bristly head, and wanders off. By the sounds of it, he’s putting away the things from the van.

By the time he turns the last page, Spike’s cramped and sore from sitting in one position so long, but he barely notices because his head is swimming with all he’s learned. He puts the book down on the floor and looks up to see Xander leaning in the doorway, watching him apprehensively.

“Spike?” he asks softly.

“I killed my own mum. Made her a vampire then dusted her. Killed two slayers, too.”

Xander doesn’t say anything.

“Wasn’t much of a man, when I was one. Weak and dozy. Wrote terrible poetry.”

Still no response.

“Murdered my way across Europe and Asia. Had a bloody good time at it.”

Spike waits expectantly, but still Xander says nothing. Finally, Spike demands, “Well?”

“Do you think I’m going to be shocked by anything in that book, Spike?”

“Well, yeah. I tried to kill your lot, too.”

“We’ve already been through that. I knew who you are, what you are, from the beginning.”

“How can you stand me, then?”

“How can you stand _me_? I’ve killed plenty of demons, vampires included.” He grimaces. “And just recently, a couple of humans, too.”

Spike shakes his head. “Not the same.”

“What, so you’re badder than me? Probably. Of course, you’ve had an extra century to rack up a body count, not to mention assistance from your family. Give me a couple of decades with Angelus and Drusilla and I’d be a pretty awful monster, too.”

“Am I an awful monster?”

Xander walks over and deliberately takes Spike’s hands in his, presses his lips against each. “I dunno. You’re sure not as awful as those Initiative fuckers. And you’re my monster, okay? I like you as you are. I…love you as you are.”

Spike freezes and replays the last sentence in his head. Did Xander really say—

“Xan?”

“Yeah?”

“You l-love—“

Xander sighs. “I love you. There. I said it. And I’m a great big girl and now you’re going to feel all pressured and everything and you shouldn’t, but I thought you should know and I’ve never fallen in love with someone before so….” Xander’s voice trails off.

“You, _you_ could love _me_?”

“I do.”

Spike swallows thickly and turns his head away. He takes a deep breath, then turns back. He has to ask something else right now.

“Xander? This Angelus? Angel? You knew him, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What—what did he look like?”

Xander looks very uncomfortable. “He was big. Tall. Really strong. Handsome. Brooded a lot, except when he was soul-free. Then he walked around in leather pants and plotted evil plots.”

“This blanket?” Spike says, and points to the red quilt, which is wrapped around him.

“Came from Angel’s house.”

Spike closes his eyes and lets his head fall into his hands. Xander slips an arm around his shoulder.

“I think…I think I killed him. I killed Angel, Xander.”

Xander sighs. “Yeah, I…I know. Or at least I was pretty sure.”

Spike looks up at him. “How?”

Now Xander looks guilty. “I, uh, I read your journal. While you were gone. I’m sorry! I just…. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know his name. They called him 4315. But he knew mine—it’s how I learned what my name is.” Suddenly, he remembers something else. “He…he called me William, too. I’d forgot.”

Xander leans his head against Spike’s.

“I knew, though, when I killed him, I knew I was losing…something important.”

“You’d already lost him, Spike. You lost him the minute those fuckers caught him. You just set him free, didn’t you?”

Spike considers this. Thinks about how 4315—no, _Angel_—had thrown the fight, had thanked him right before he decapitated him. He remembers how Angel had convulsed in agony when his chip was activated, remembers his cock hanging down over the little patch of skin where his scrotum used to be, remembers the despair that radiated from him in waves.

Xander’s right.

Still, Spike finds himself sobbing against Xander’s chest, not just for Angel, but for himself, for what he was, for what he’s lost. But as he exhausts himself and his weeping dies away, it strikes him that he’s gained something valuable as well: Xander Harris loves him. And Spike—he knows he’s a vampire, but the diaries show he’s a vampire who can love—Spike loves Xander right back.

[Chapter 16b](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/7262.html)  
 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	22. Chapter 16b: Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 16b: Homecoming**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 16b: Homecoming   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)  for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)&lt;/lj&gt;  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**We're at the end of The Right Tool. Today I'll be posting Chapter 16 in two parts, and then 17 and 18. The last two chapters are very short. Thank you for reading! For news on the sequel, please [check my LJ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6838.html).**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

Willow is scheduled to arrive the following afternoon. Perhaps understanding that Xander doesn’t want to leave Spike alone, she said she’ll take a taxi.

All morning, Spike is anxious but he can’t even pace around to work off some of his nervous energy. So Xander distracts him by helping him explore exactly how much he _can_ do with the sodding splints on. It’s a good way to be distracted. By noontime Spike is nestled on the couch, remote control in hand, feeling satiated and slightly debauched. Xander has already treated him to another sponge bath—well, two actually, because the first one rather evolved into something else and then they had to clean him up again—and Xander himself is now showering. Spike can hear him singing off-key.

When Xander gets out, his tousled hair still damp, he helps Spike into sweats and a t-shirt, then nags him until he drinks some more blood. Xander wanders off restlessly for a while, then comes back.

“Hey, baby, can you do me favor?”

Spike looks away from the old CSI episode he’s been watching, surprised. What kind of favor can he do?

“Switch to your vamp face, please.”

Spike’s puzzled by the request, but he complies. Xander comes over and kneels in front of him. He traces his fingers over Spike’s brow ridges and stares into his eyes, then brushes his thumb across Spike’s bottom lip. “Open up.”

Obediently, Spike parts his lips. Xander runs a finger over his teeth, and—

Oh, fuck.

“Fangs are growing back, sweetheart,” Xander says. “I wondered after I saw what you did to my pillow last night.”

But Spike doesn’t really hear him because Xander’s finger feels so. Fucking. Good. And Spike moans and sees Xander’s eyes grow wide. “That’s nice?” Xander whispers. And Spike just moans again in response.

Xander’s other hand settles on Spike’s fleece-covered crotch and starts rubbing at the hard lump it finds there. Spike can’t really move, so he just lets his eyes fall closed and allows the sensations to roll through his body. He wonders if it would be worth the pain from the chip if he bit slightly into Xander’s finger, just a tiny little nip so he could taste him. But then all conscious thought flies from his mind as Xander rubs just a little bit harder and faster with both hands and Spike feels his tingling bollocks draw up and then with a choking cry Spike throws back his head and comes.

Xander caresses Spike’s cock a little longer, helping him ride out the downslide of his orgasm, and then Spike opens his eyes. Xander is staring at him, glassy-eyed and smiling. “I wonder,” he murmurs. “I wonder if it feels even better if you actually get to bite….” And Spike’s cock, which really ought to be calling it a day by now, gives a twitch in response.

Spike and Xander look down at Spike’s crotch, which now sports a prominent wet stain. Xander grins crookedly. “Guess it’s time for a clothing change.”

“Guess so.”

Xander leaves the room. Spike’s pretty sure he couldn’t walk right now even if his legs were healed. He lets his face melt back to human. Xander returns a moment later with a fresh pair of black sweats and a small towel in his hands. He helps Spike roll the soiled pair over his hips and down his legs, then wipes Spike’s groin clean with the damp towel. Then, together, they manage to get Spike dressed again.

Spike catches Xander’s hand just before the man leaves the room again. He kisses the big, knobby knuckles. “Thanks, Xan,” he says.

Xander squeezes Spike’s hand. “It’s gonna be fine, honey.” And he leaves to get rid of the laundry, as Spike contemplates just how he came from hell on earth—twice—to a gorgeous bloke who calls him honey.

 

It’s only a few minutes later when the doorbell rings. Xander throws Spike a reassuring smile and races to the door.

Spike can’t really see what’s happening from where he’s sitting, but he can hear a bit of shock over the state of Xander’s face, followed by some happy welcoming noises. He feels like every one of his muscles is pulled taut. There are so many things about this meeting to worry about: she’s human, she’s Xander’s oldest friend, she’s a witch. Oh, and she remembers Spike at his homicidal best. On top of that, the only woman Spike can really remember interacting with is Professor Walsh, and that’s not a happy precedent.

He’s terrified.

So it makes him feel a little better when the pretty redhead creeps into the room, and he can see that she’s scared, too. Her eyes take him in, from his nearly-bare scalp to the metal collar tight around his neck to his legs splayed stiffly across the couch, and her expression softens. He’s afraid he’ll see pity in her face next, but he doesn’t. She just looks…sad.

“Hi, Spike,” she nearly whispers.

“Hi,” he replies and looks down at his hands, which are twisting in his lap.

Xander is carrying a suitcase in one hand and a smaller bag in the other, but he nudges Willow forward, a little farther into the room. “Will, I’m gonna put your things in your room. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Willow perches at the edge of one of the chairs. Her face is innocent and sweet, but Spike can also sense a solid core to her, and her eyes look like they miss very little. “Uh, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he mumbles at his lap.

“Oh, okay, well, fine is good. Fine is, um, fine.”

They’re silent. Where the hell is Xander?

He can’t stand it any more.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For helping find me. Know you did it for Xander, and not for me, but thank you.” He looks up at her as he says this and sees that she’s frowning at him.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

They both sigh in relief when Xander returns to the room. He plops himself down on the floor next to Spike, and Willow narrows her eyes a little when he reaches up to hold Spike’s hand, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Will, you want something to eat? To drink?”

“No, thanks, not now. I was thinking…maybe we should get started now because I don’t know how much time any of this is going to take and I know the Initiative and the Army are breathing down your necks and I’m not sure what we’re going to have to do.”

She takes a deep breath.

Xander looks at Spike. “You ready for this?”

Spike just nods.

Willow nods, too. She picks up the small black case at her side, and now Spike can see that it contains a laptop. She unzips it and presses a button or two. “Just a sec. I want to take notes…. Okay. Why don’t we start with a to-do list?”

“The most important thing is to disable the tracking chip they put in him somewhere. As long as it’s working, they can find him anywhere.”

“Okay, tracking device, check,” she says, typing.

“Then there’s the control chip. If he hurts a human, it causes him horrible pain. Plus they can activate it manually with a controller.”

Willow frowns again. “Xander—and, and I’m sorry Spike, but—without the chip what’s going to stop him from, you know, fangs and biting and maiming and, and killing?”

It’s a fair question, Spike thinks. One he expected. But Xander looks angry.

“Will, when those fuckers took him and, and tortured him, he couldn’t even defend himself. He just had to take it. That’s not right.”

“No, no, Xan. It isn’t. But we’re not just talking self-defense. We’re talking—dinner, you know?”

Xander takes a deep breath. “I trust him.”

Spike starts at this. He’s come to believe that Xander cares for him. A lot, maybe. But he _trusts_ him? A soulless demon?

“When we found Spike in Sunnydale he was nearly dust. Just…beat all to hell. I saw his bones, Will. And he was starved. I was so afraid he was going to go poof any minute I cut my wrist and gave it to him.”

Willow’s eyes get huge at this. “Xander! You—you—“

“Yeah. And you know what he did? He drank just a little and then pushed my wrist away. He could’ve killed me right then, and I would’ve let him. And he didn’t.”

Willow is staring at Spike now. “Spike? Why did you do that?”

“It was Xander, wasn’t it? Didn’t…didn’t want to hurt Xander.”

“Spike, if I can de-chip you, will you kill again?”

Spike thinks about this question very seriously. He wants to be honest, in part because he’s so pleasantly surprised that this woman actually asked him. “Can’t say I never would. Might. I’d drain those Initiative wankers in a second if I could. But…but I would never hurt Xander, or do anything that might cause him harm.”

Xander looks at him with shining eyes.

Willow says, “So if Xander asked you not to kill people?”

Spike answers promptly, “I wouldn’t kill people.”

Xander swears softly and squeezes Spike’s hand. “Jesus, Spike. You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah, pet.”

Willow nods her head and looks resolved. “Okay, then. Control chip, check.” And she types some more. “Anything else?”

As if that’s not enough, Spike thinks. But Xander is nodding. “This collar, Will. I can’t figure out how to get it off.” And he smoothes his thumb over the perpetually sore skin around the edge of the metal.

“Collar, check. What else?”

Xander turns an interesting shade of crimson. “He, um, has these sensors.” Oh. That. Spike finds the ceiling suddenly fascinating.

“Sensors?”

“Yeah, so he wouldn’t, er, can’t….”

“Yes?”

Xander swallows audibly. “He can’t touch himself.”

“Can’t touch him—Oh! Oh.” Spike looks out of the corner of his eyes and sees that she’s blushing now, too.”

“If he does, he gets zapped.” Xander squeezes his hand again. Spike squeezes back.

“And…and these sensors are, are where?”

“In his hands. And, um…. Shit. In his dick, too, okay?”

“Ooookay. Sensors, check.” She looks at Spike now, smiling wanly. “Anything else, sweetie?”

Sweetie?

“That’s all,” he says.

“Well, that’s enough.” She sets her jaw determinedly. “I’m going to get to work, then, and see what I can dig up. Xan, it’s okay if I take over the kitchen table again?”

“Sure, Will. Help yourself.”

Willow stands and walks over to them. She bends down and wraps her arms around Xander. Then, much to his shock, she wraps Spike in an awkward hug, too. “We’ll figure this out, sweetie,” she says. And somehow, for the first time, he actually hopes he might be free.

 

Willow spends most of the next several days on her computers. Spike watches the telly and works his way through his stack of books. Xander hovers around so anxiously that Willow practically orders him out of the house. Once he’s assured that Spike feels comfortable alone with Willow, he calls his boss. Dan is happy to get him back, so Xander goes to the shop each day.

Spike doesn’t actually see much of Willow during the day, but she checks in on him periodically. Spike thought she might be disgusted at his blood drinking, but she doesn’t seem to be. She claims she’s had to ingest quite a few questionable substances when practicing witchcraft, and she insists on bringing him his heated cups. She’s amused to find out that the tool mug is his favorite.

In the evening, Xander arrives home with take-out of some kind and they all eat together in the living room. Willow doesn’t talk much about her progress, but she still seems optimistic. The three of them watch movies together until bedtime.

Spike was worried at first that with Willow in the house Xander wouldn’t want to have sex, but maybe his libido outweighs his bashfulness. In any case, Xander most definitely does want to have sex, and so they do, as often as they can manage it. Willow pretends not to notice, but sometimes Spike catches her looking at him and Xander with real tenderness and a little bit of a smirk.

By the third day, all three of them spend evenings cuddled together on the couch. Spike leans his upper body against Xander, while he rests his feet on Willow’s lap. She cries over his missing toe. The holes in his feet are closed now, and Willow gives him some brilliant massages. He makes her promise to teach Xander some of those skills.

Todd drops by a couple of times. He and Willow greet each other like old friends, and then Todd and Spike listen raptly as she tells them embarrassing stories from Xander’s childhood. Xander pretends to be angry at her and questions the wisdom of sharing secrets with demons.

One night, Xander and Spike tell Willow about Angel’s death. She cries. She says that after she and Buffy left Sunnydale for college, Angel had gone to LA. He and Buffy had talked over the phone a few times. He’d called Willow when he couldn’t reach Buffy for several days, and that’s when Willow told him the slayer was dead. She never heard from him again after that. She sniffs into a Kleenex. Then she pats Spike on the leg and says he’d given his grandsire the kindest gift he could, under the circumstances.

Nearly a week has passed when Willow emerges from the kitchen looking excited. It’s Saturday and so Xander is home as well. “Hey! I found some encrypted files, and I think they may have a lot of the answers we’re looking for. I’ve almost got them cracked, and then we can see if we can make Spike less chippy. Chipper. Chipped.”

“I knew you could do it, Will.”

“Yeah, Red, me too.”

She beams at them and starts to head back to the kitchen, then stops. “I was thinking it might be easier if I had physical access to some of the devices they’re using. Xan, is there any way you could get your hands on something?”

“Well, they’re supposed to be sending me a tracking thing any day now.”

But Spike has remembered something. “Pet, do you still have the box?”

Xander looks at him. “Shit. I forgot. Yeah, I still have it. Hang on.”

He disappears into the kitchen. Spike isn’t surprised when he comes back a minute later with the gray box in his hands, but he still can’t help cringing against the couch cushions. Willow notices.

“Are you all right, Spike?”

He nods mutely.

Xander gingerly hands the thing to Willow. “They used these to activate his chip. It’s…be careful, okay? When it zaps him….”

“I’ll be very careful. Thanks. I’m just gonna put this on the table until the morning. Okay, Spike?”

He nods again, and is happy to see her take it out of his sight.

 

The next night, the three of them are on the couch again. For a change, Spike’s head is in Willow’s lap, and Xander is playing with his feet.

Willow has just informed them that the mind wipe the Initiative performed really is irreversible; apparently the process actually destroys certain parts of the brain. The vampire’s brain tissue regenerates, but the memories are gone forever. Xander and Willow look miserable about this, but, surprisingly, it doesn’t bother Spike that much. His past is gone. He’s content with the present, hoping for a future.

“Can we take these buggers off yet, you think?” he asks, waving his legs a little.

Xander smiles at him. “How about we give it a try when I get home tomorrow?”

Willow, meanwhile, is absently running her fingertips through the bit of stubble on his head. Suddenly, she stops.

“Ooh. Oooh! I just remembered something!”

Spike twists his head around so he can look at her.

“There’s a spell for releasing bonds and chains. It’s a little tricky but I think I can manage it. Spike, is it all right if I take a closer look at the collar?”

“Sure, Red.”

Xander helps him sit up and Willow peers closely at his neck. Then she closes her eyes and touches the metal band, muttering something under her breath that Spike can’t understand.

“Yes…yes!” she finally says. “Just a sec!” She jumps up and runs off toward the spare bedroom, and Xander and Spike look at each other quizzically as they hear loud rustling and slamming noises. She returns with a book and a small leather bag.

“I knew I had it somewhere, and it just needs these crystals. There’s only one thing.”

“Yes?” Spike and Xander both say at the same time.

“The spell has to be cast by someone who really loves the bound person. If there’s no true love, the spell will go wrong and that’s not going to be a nice thing for anyone.”

Xander smiles easily. “No problem.”

She looks at the two of them for a long time. Finally, she says, “Spike, are you okay with this?”

He wants the collar off very badly, but not if…. “What happens to Xander if…the mojo goes bad?”

Xander looks angry now. “Spike, it’s not—“

“Red?”

She sighs. “I—I don’t know. Could be something sort of…fatal. Maybe.”

“Forget it, then. Not going to risk it.”

Xander extricates himself from under Spike’s feet and kneels at the vampire’s side. He looks him earnestly in the eyes. “Spike, I said I trust you. Will you trust me? The spell is going to work.”

Spike says nothing. He looks into those chocolate-colored eyes and sees sadness and pain and something else. Something that could be…. “All right, then,” he says softly. “Go to it, pet.”

Xander leans in for a long, passionate kiss. By the time he backs off, both of them are breathing hard and Willow is smiling and staring at the floor.

“Let’s do it, Will.”

She shows him the words and he practices them silently a few times. Then she dumps some stones out of the bag and hands them to Xander. “Xan, put one hand on the collar and the other hand should hold the crystals,” she instructs. “Think of one thing you especially love about Spike, and fix that in your mind.” Xander thinks for a minute, and then smiles broadly. Spike wonders what he’s thinking of. Spike’s tongue? His arse? “Okay, now, recite the words.”

Loudly and confidently, Xander chants some words in a language Spike doesn’t recognize. He repeats them, and Spike feels a warm tingle begin around his neck, like a mild electrical current. The current seems to begin in the crystals, because Xander jerks a little and his arm shakes, but he doesn’t lose his contact with Spike. He says the words again, and now the tingle is stronger, more of a sting, really. After the fourth recitation, it’s become quite painful. Spike is gritting his teeth and Xander’s voice is wavering. But he says the words a fifth time, and there’s a sudden blast of pain and light.

Spike and Xander both scream.

Then the light dims enough for Spike to see again. Xander is still sitting next to him. The collar, now charred and twisted, is in his hand.

He throws it away and it bounces off a wall, making a small black mark. But neither of them care, because they are entwined in each other’s arms, and Xander is busy laying tender kisses along the abraded flesh of Spike’s neck.

And Spike is exulting, thinking he could dust this minute and it would be okay, because now he knows for certain. Xander loves him.

 

In bed that night, as he lies sated across Xander’s chest, Spike remembers to ask.

“Pet? What did you think of tonight? That you love about me?”

Xander laughs quietly. “It was hard to narrow it down, sweetheart.”

“So?”

“I thought about your.…I don’t even know what to call it. I want to say your soul.” He laughs again. “Your spirit, maybe? The thing they couldn’t take from you, even when they took your memories. Your…Spikiness.”

And Spike laughs too, and that feels better than anything ever has.

 

Xander leaves work early the next day, which is good. Spike has been antsy all day, impatient for his legs to be freed. He considered taking the splints off himself, but didn’t want to upset his human. Still, the minute he hears the kitchen door open he hollers Xander’s name.

Xander and Willow enter the living room. Xander’s smiling and carrying a set of crutches. And Willow is practically glowing, she looks so happy.

Xander rushes over and bends down for a deep, long snog. “Waiting for something, sweetheart?”

Spike snarls a little. He wants the fucking splints off now. Xander grins and turns to Willow. “I’m gonna have to take his pants off for this, Will, so unless you want a show….”

“Oh.” She blushes a little. “But I need to tell you this first. I cracked the encryption code! Give me a couple hours and I think we can get you deactivated, Spike.” She turns and flees before she gets a response. Spike takes a deep breath. Is it really possible?

Xander starts to roll the sweats down over Spike’s hips. He stops to give Spike’s flaccid cock a little kiss—“Sorry, baby. Can’t help myself.”—and then removes the garment entirely. He pulls out the Leatherman again and carefully cuts the bandages that attach the broken spears to Spike’s legs. He tosses the wood aside, and Spike makes a mental note to make sure the splints get thrown away quickly. Long wooden things make him nervous. His legs look withered, as if the muscle has wasted away, but they’re straight.

He waves them around a bit. So far, so good.

Xander helps him sit up all the way and then turn so that his legs are over the front of the couch and his feet are on the floor. Bloody hell! It feels good to bend his knees.

Xander sits next to him and places his arm around Spike’s shoulder. He puts his lips very, very close to Spike’s ear and, in the barest of whispers, says, “Have I told you my plans for when Willow gets you all fixed up?”

Spike’s cock starts to harden just at the feel of Xander’s breath on his skin, and that’s not fair when he sitting here half-naked. Still, he whispers back, “What?”

“I’m going to take a long, hot bath. And then I’m going to get myself nice. And. Slick.”

Spike swallows. Loudly.

“And then I’m going to find out what it feels like…to have…a vampire’s cock in my ass…and fangs in my neck.”

Spike groans.

And Xander laughs and bends down to help Spike get his sweats back on. Christ! Isn’t Spike the one who’s supposed to be evil?

“Okay,” Xander says. “Want to try to stand?”

Spike nods and Xander slips his arm around his waist. Spike wraps one of his own arms over Xander’s waist and, cautiously, starts putting weight on his feet. It takes several seconds, but eventually he’s standing upright. His legs feel weak and he’s pretty sure he’d fall without Xander’s support, but for the first time in—however long it’s been—he’s actually standing.

With Xander helping, he manages a few shaky steps. But then his knees give out and he swears as Xander half-carries him back to the couch. “Hey, give it some time, Spike. You’ll be stalking around in no time.”

Spike scowls at him for a moment but then relents. Xander is right. At least it’s better than the time the slayer dropped an organ on him. The diaries say he was in a wheelchair for months after that, at the mercy of Angelus. The Angel he met in the cage was beautiful and tragic—and strong. After what he’s read about Angelus he knows he wouldn’t have wanted to be helpless near him.

Spike spends the next few hours practicing walking. Just little baby steps, really, but it’s something. The crutches help. Xander brings him more blood and reminds him that the more he drinks, the sooner he’ll heal.

When the doorbell rings he startles and nearly falls. He’s never quite sure it won’t be men in fatigues or, worse, people in white lab coats. But it’s just the delivery man, with a package for Xander.

Xander signs for the package and shuts the door, then frowns. As Spike makes his wobbly way over to the couch, Xander rips open the box. The object inside looks too much like the gray box for Spike’s comfort. There’s a piece of paper, too, and Xander reads it.

He holds up the object. “Tracking device,” he says shortly. “It’s not supposed to hurt you. Is it okay if I try it?”

Spike knows Xander would never harm him on purpose, but still, he sits before he nods.

Xander takes a deep breath and pushes a button. Spike winces but feels nothing. Xander brings the box over so Spike can see it. It has a small screen on it. The screen displays an array of numbers and letters—geographical coordinates, he supposes—and a small map. There’s a red dot on the map.

“That’s our house,” says Xander, pointing. “And that’s you. I guess this thing works.”

Spike nods grimly. Although he’d believed all along that they could track him anywhere, it’s a sobering experience to actually see it for himself. He thinks about spending the rest of his existence enslaved, unable to find refuge anywhere on the planet, and he shivers.

Xander brings the tracker into the kitchen for Willow to see.

Spike curls up on the couch. It’s wonderful to not have to sit like a mannequin any more, but mostly right now he needs some comfort. Even though it’s quite warm, he wraps the red blanket around himself, taking in the lingering smell of Angel overlaid with the scents of Xander and Todd and Willow. He looks at the cardboard box, lying on the wood floor where Xander had discarded it, and he thinks about the hands that packed the parcel. Was it Walsh herself? Or maybe one of her minions. Criswell? Greco or one of his crew?

Does Xander love him enough to stake him if Willow can’t fix him?

 

In the end, though, it is almost anti-climactic. Willow drags in her computers and a couple of other mysterious gadgets. She sits next to him on the couch and smiles.

“Sweetie, I’m going to begin with the control chip. I can’t remove it because it’s in your head, and I can’t get it out without scrambling your brains.”

Xander is standing behind the couch. He leans down to wrap his arms around Spike’s chest and kiss his head. “And I like your brains unscrambled.”

Spike nods tensely. He does, too.

“So I’m going to use my laptop and this—“ she holds up one of the plastic and metal things—“and turn it off permanently. It’ll still be there, but it’ll be just an inert little piece of silicon.”

“It won’t—won’t go off?”

“Nope. Not by itself, not even if someone tries to use the control box.”

It takes a little while for her to get her machine calibrated correctly, but soon she’s pointing it at Spike’s head with one hand and typing with the other.

Suddenly, he’s seized with agony. He screams, clutches his head, and falls off the couch.

In a split second, Xander is there, gathering him in his arms, checking to make sure he hasn’t injured himself.

Willow’s mouth is wide open and she has tears in her eyes. “Oh, my Goddess, Spike, I am so sorry! I got one of the coordinates a little wrong and—oh, sweetie, are you okay?”

“Fine,” he croaks. Xander moves to help him back onto the couch but Spike holds up a hand. “Think I’ll just stay here till the witch is done, yeah?” Xander moves behind him, laying his long legs on either side of Spike and pushing the vampire back onto his chest. He winds his arms around him like a safety belt. That’s good, Spike thinks. Feels…safe.

Willow goes back to her computer screen, still crying a little. In a minute, she looks up. “There,” she says shakily. “It’s done.”

“Just like that?” asks Xander.

“I—I think so.”

Xander hold a hand up in front of Spike. “Hit me.”

Spike hesitates and then slaps softly at it. No response from his head.

“Not like that, Spike. Harder. C’mon, I can handle it.”

Spike sighs and makes a fist. He pulls it back as far as he can with Xander behind him and rams it into Xander’s palm.

“Ow!” Xander says, snatching his hand away.

Spike feels fine.

He grins and twists around, grabbing Xander’s head with his hands for a kiss. “Gonna take you up on that plan of yours tonight,” he whispers. And he feels Xander harden where he’s pressed against Spike’s arse.

The tracking chip is even easier. Willow disables that within minutes. She shows them the device that came in the mail today. Now the screen just reads “ERROR.”

Spike wants to jump up and kiss her and kiss Xander again and dance through the darkened streets. But he can’t move very well yet, and besides, he’s comfortable in Xander’s arms. So instead he shifts the planes of his face, feeling his brows become heavier and his fangs drop, enjoying the way all his senses suddenly sharpen, and he throws his head back on Xander’s shoulder and bays like a wolf at the moon. And a moment later, he’s joined by two human voices, one male and one female, and they’re baying, too.

Willow drops her electronic gear and joins them on the floor, and the three of them hug and laugh and maybe even cry a bit.

When they’ve all calmed, Willow takes Spike’s hands in hers. “Spike, I can’t do anything about the, um, sensors. They’re actually pretty lo-tech, it turns out.”

Spike doesn’t care. Oh, later he supposes he might, but if he has to forego wanking indefinitely, he can manage that. It’s not like he can remember his body ever being completely his anyway. All that matters now is that the Initiative can’t find him and if they do, he can defend himself.

But Xander’s upset about it. “There nothing you can do, Will?”

“You have to remove them. But, um, you could just take out the ones in his hands, I think. So you wouldn’t have to cut into, er, more sensitive places.”

Spike turns to Xander. “Pet, it’s fine. We can deal with it later. Doesn’t matter right now.”

But he does have a question. “Xan, won’t those gits notice that I’ve disappeared?”

Xander smiles. “Yep. But I have a plan.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and punches a few buttons. Spike can hear someone answer on the other end.

“Hey, Todd,” Xander says. “Ever been bit by a vampire before?”

 

Willow manages to book a red-eye back to Boston that night. Jen and the kids are missing her, and besides, Spike suspects that she wants to give Xander and him a dose of privacy. She can probably just about feel the sparks that are flying right now between the two of them.

She calls for a taxi, and as it waits for her, Xander gives her a huge hug. Then she marches over to Spike, who’s back on the couch again. She looks at him solemnly, and bugger if he doesn’t see a hint of black spiraling through the green in her eyes. “If you ever hurt my Xander I promise you you’ll regret it, mister,” she says, and he believes her. And then her expression softens and the black disappears. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re good for each other. Make each other happy, okay?” He nods and she hugs him, too, before hurrying to her ride.

As soon as the door is shut behind her, Xander turns toward Spike with a predatory glint in his eyes. “Be right back….” he rumbles. He returns a few minutes later with the tool mug, filled to the brim with warm blood. He hands it to Spike.

“Think you can make to bed on your own? I’m going to go get nice and squeaky clean.”

Spike nods dumbly. He’s not sure he can manage actual language at the moment. Xander smiles and walks off, deliberately swinging his hips as he goes.

Spike gulps the blood.

He scoops up the crutches and pulls himself to his feet, then makes his way laboriously down the hall. In the bedroom, he strips off his t-shirt and throws it in the corner, then peels off his sweats. He spends some time examining his legs, flexing the muscles, moving them this way and that. They’re a bit sore, perhaps from all the use today, but the bones look solid.

He stares at his cock, nestled softly in his lap, the ring catching the light and reflecting it back. He lies down on his back on the bed and runs his hands over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his belly. He feels whole. He feels nearly…himself.

He raises his hands and explores the contours of his face, and then shifts and explores again. His features feel coarse this way, and he wonders how Xander could call him beautiful, but he does. He runs his tongue along the ridge of his fangs and deliberately pierces his flesh, thrilling at the taste of his own blood.

He thinks of Xander, wet and warm in the bath, getting himself ready. Ready for _him_. If he’s very still he can hear the small splashing noises that Xander makes as he moves around, can hear Xander humming something happy and tuneless.

The room is pleasantly balmy and the sheets are soft and smooth and clean beneath his bare skin. If he turns his head, he feels the short strands of hair on his head brush against the pillow. He turns his head more, buries his nose in the fabric, inhaling the scent of the man who loves him.

He switches back to his human face and inhales again. It still smells like heaven.

His cock begins to grow heavy, and for once he’s almost glad he can’t touch it, because the anticipation is so much sweeter.

There’s a louder splash and the water begins to drain from the bath. His cock responds by filling completely.

A century later, Xander enters the room.

He’s fully naked, his own hard length standing proudly between his legs. He’s towel-dried his hair and now it’s a damp mop of dark curls. The plaster is gone from his leg and there’s an angry red mark there, but he doesn’t limp as he walks into the room.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he purrs.

“Pet.”

“I see you got yourself ready.”

“Been ready for you a long time.”

Xander responds by launching himself onto the bed, on top of Spike. Spike _ooofs_. He didn’t need that oxygen anyway. Xander has lined himself neatly along Spike’s body, his feet hanging a few inches lower, but every other bit matching pretty much part for part.

Xander’s lips sweep along Spike’s throat, tickling along the fading line where the metal band dug in for so long, replacing it with a collar of kisses. Spike answers by brushing _his_ lips along the scar on Xander’s face and along the newly-bent portion of his nose. Then their lips meet and their tongues twine and dance around each other. Xander tastes of toothpaste and lemongrass and Singha lager.

Spike’s hands sweep across Xander’s broad back, feeling the muscles bunch and release, then his hands drift down to his lover’s strong buttocks. Xander tenses and rocks his hips a little, dragging his cock oh-so-slightly up and down Spike’s, making Spike shiver and moan into Xander’s mouth.

Then Xander shifts down, and now he’s mouthing Spike’s left nipple. He sucks and licks at the tender nub while his hand tweaks and rolls the other one. Spike arches into him and Xander lightly humps Spike’s thigh, precome dampening his skin.

Just when Spike thinks he can’t stand it another minute, Xander moves back up and presses his lips to Spike’s again, but then he shifts them away, across Spike’s cheekbone and toward his ear. He sticks his tongue inside and licks like a cat, causing Spike to moan again. “Change, baby,” he breathes.

Spike does.

And he roars and grabs Xander by the shoulders and in one sudden move flips them over, a maneuver that would surely have set off his chip if it were still active. Through demon eyes he looks down at the human, searching for fear or disgust. But all he sees is excitement and lust and joy and love. Even the sadness he has always detected there has nearly faded away.

He kisses Xander now, and when his fangs nick the man’s tongue and draw a bead of blood, Xander groans and they both freeze. Again he searches his lover’s face, but then he realizes that Xander had stilled for the same reason he did: they had both almost come. And neither wants this to end yet.

So Spike bypasses Xander’s neck completely, even though Xander has bent it in a blatant invitation, and he traces his mouth and tongue down the center of Xander’s body, careful not to let his teeth come in contact with him. When he gets to Xander’s navel he licks and sucks at it, feeling Xander’s wet cock pulsing demandingly against his sternum. Xander has been silent so far, but now he whines, “Spike…don’t tease, goddammit…”

Spike chuckles evilly into Xander’s belly. Then he works his way verrry slowly southward, until Xander is writhing and whimpering prettily. When he gets to Xander’s cock, he licks a broad stroke from bollocks to tip, savoring the taste of his man. But when Xander responds by canting his hips upward and crying, “God…yes!...fuck…,” he abandons the tasty treat and instead uses his hands to spread Xander’s thighs wide apart.

Xander lifts his knees up and apart and says, “Yes, please, Spike, please…” and Spike has to freeze again and gain control over himself. Carefully, he sticks out his tongue, and touches just the tip of it to the dusky pucker. “Fuck, yes!” Xander cries, and Spike slowly inches inside, surprised for a moment to find it slippery, but then remembering what Xander had said. Xander really has prepared himself for Spike.

That thought is almost too much for Spike to stand. He withdraws his tongue and inserts his finger instead, probably a little too roughly, but Xander doesn’t seem to mind, and in fact, he bears down on it quickly. Spike adds a second finger, remembering how thoroughly Xander has always prepared him. But Xander jerks and growls, “Spike! I want you in me now!”

Spike shimmies back up Xander’s body. Xander reaches down and lines Spike’s cock up just right, and then Spike sinks inside.

Jesus Christ.

He can’t move. Can’t move at all or…. “Xan—oh, fuck!” and he feels himself empty into that tight, slippery heat. Xander clutches at him, wraps his legs around him, brings him inside even more.

Spike stops a moment to catch his breath, and isn’t that funny? But after just a moment he feels Xander contract around him and smells the waves of arousal rising off of him. His cock has remained rock hard and now he starts pumping his hips a bit as Xander squeezes his arse and pants into his ear. Xander’s cock is trapped between them and their both their bellies are slick and wet.

He moves faster and his bollocks draw up against him again and then Xander tilts his head and almost sobs, “Now, Christ, now, Spike, now…”

And quick as a snake, Spike sinks his fangs into Xander’s neck.

Xander screams and judders beneath him and Spike swallows and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck he’s tasting Xander drinking his life and it’s so good and a ball of fire rushes from his bollocks and another from his fangs and they collide somewhere in the middle and an explosion ripples through his entire body, through Xander’s entire body, and he raises his head and roars.

When his senses return, he looks down at Xander. There are two neat little holes in the man’s neck, each with just a tiny trickle of blood. Xander is staring up at him, his eyes glassy and the pupils blown wide.

“Sh-shit,” Xander stutters. “Shit.”

“Okay, luv?”

“Is the back of my head still attached?”

Spike laughs and rubs Xander’s head, as if to check. Xander lifts his head and presses his lips against Spike’s, and Spike gives his hips another little wiggle, causing them both to shudder and groan.

“Human here, Spike,” mutters Xander. “Gimme a few minutes to recover.”

“Can I stay inside?”

“Only for the rest of my life.”

 

[Chapter 17](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/7655.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	23. Chapter 17: Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 17: Report**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 17: Report   
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/)for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**We're at the end of The Right Tool. Today I'll be posting Chapter 16 in two parts, and then 17 and 18. The last two chapters are very short. Thank you for reading! For news on the sequel, please [check my LJ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6838.html).**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

_   
_

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

_Excerpts from report by General Stephen R. Shales to General Peter F. MacReary._

 

…On 27 July, Hostile Seventeen, under the direction of Mr. Harris, attacked a demon of the Brachen classification. The attack initially went smoothly and the demon was destroyed [see attachment D for photo of Brachen with broken neck].

However, after dispatching the Brachen, the subject ignored the commands of its handler and turned on a pedestrian, Mr. Todd Jelinek, 25. Despite the control chip, the hostile tackled Mr. Jelinek and caused him to fall to the sidewalk, at which point it attempted to bite him. Mr. Harris, who has extensive experience in eliminating demons, was forced to terminate the subject with a stake through its heart.

Mr. Jelinek received injuries to his neck [see attachments E and F for photos of Mr. Jelinek’s wounds; see attachment G for Mr. Jelinek’s statement of the attack] but was not critically hurt. I have authorized the payment of $75,000 to Mr. Jelinek in compensation for his damages….

 

…I have authorized the full payment of $200,000 to Mr. Harris in light of the extensive time he has invested in this project, as well as his heroic actions in saving Mr. Jelinek….

 

…It is my recommendation that the vampire-training project be terminated immediately, due to the unacceptable levels of risk it involves. Mr. Harris is in concordance with this recommendation [see attachment R for Mr. Harris’s full report]. It is my further recommendation that all funding be immediately withdrawn from the Initiative program, and that all personnel currently assigned to the program be redeployed elsewhere….

 

[Chapter 18](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/7781.html#cutid1)

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 


	24. Chapter 18: Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU after BtVS Season 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |  [righttool](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/righttool)  
---|---  
  
_**The Right Tool--Chapter 18: Beginning**_  
**Chapter Title: **Chapter 18: Beginning  
**Pairing:** Spike/Xander (mainly)   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I'm not Joss Whedon   
**Summary:** AU after BtVS Season 3.   
**Warnings:** I hate spoilery warnings, so let's just assume that dark stuff, non-con, m/m, BDSM, occasional character death, violence, kinks, language, and other fun things like that are likely to happen here.   
**Author's Note:** This is my very first fanfic. There are 18 chapters, and I'll post a new one every day. It's pretty dark at times. Comments are muchly, **muchly** appreciated! Thank you to [](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**bogwitch**](http://bogwitch.livejournal.com/) for checking my British. Many, many thanks to [](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/profile)[**kid_viciously**](http://kid-viciously.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the wonderful, not-worksafe banners!!

**We're at the end of The Right Tool. Today I'll be posting Chapter 16 in two parts, and then 17 and 18. The last two chapters are very short. Thank you for reading! For news on the sequel, please [check my LJ](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/6838.html).**

Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=RightTool&filter=all).

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/00005t9x/)

He’s regretting coming here. It’s hot and crowded and noisy, and overall pretty overwhelming for his companion, who’s pressed anxiously against him. The arm around his waist is tight enough to be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t try to loosen it.

He bends down a little and yells into an ear: “Do you wanna just go?”

His companion considers this for a moment, and then shouts, “Oi! Zilla! Over here!”

Xander turns and sees the familiar head, blond with a streak of red, heading toward them through the press of people. He waves, and Todd steps in close, enveloping them in a group hug. Todd says something unintelligible, and, after several fruitless attempts at verbal communication, Xander points toward the exit. Todd nods and follows them.

It’s sultry outside, but much quieter than the club. Todd leans against the wall and smiles at the entwined lovers. “I thought you guys were leaving?”

“Tomorrow night. But the house is a mess right now and we were kinda feeling cabin feverish, so we thought we’d go out. Probably wasn’t the best idea,” he says doubtfully, glancing at the pale form beside him.

“A few too many humans, huh? I know how that is.”

“Hey, I’m human too, remember?”

“Mmm.”

Xander’s not sure what that means. “So where’s your squeeze?”

“Oh, he had to go back to the Hellmouth for a couple days. Business. He’ll be back Monday.”

“He and Fiona getting along okay?”

“Ehh, more or less.”

“’Cause our place is gonna be empty for a while. You’re welcome to come stay there if you want. Here—here’s my keys.” Xander hands his house keys over to Todd.

“Thanks, man. May take you up on that. You know, I’m thinking of buying this condo in the Pearl. I have enough now for a down payment. S’pose that’d make me a certified grown-up, huh? And—Spike! What the hell happened to your hands?”

One of Spike’s hands has been hidden around Xander, and the other has been jammed in his front pocket, but now the vampire has relaxed enough to detach himself from Xander and lean next to Todd.

Spike looks down at the bandages. “Nothing. Just a little unfinished Initiative business, is all.”

Xander adds, grimly, “And that’s some business I hope never to repeat, thank you very much.”

Suddenly, Spike laughs. “Xan was so nervous about cutting into me he ended up getting rat-arsed after. Then he—“

“Spike! Todd doesn’t need to hear about that.” But from the looks that the two of them exchange, he has the feeling that Todd most definitely will. He sighs.

“So where are you going?”

“Well, first we’re gonna drive to Boston, visit Willow and her gang. Jen’s, umm, a little worried about the whole demon/small children equation, but Spike’ll win her over.”

“Little worried about it myself, pet. Never been around kiddies.”

“Actually, I am, too. I’ve met these kids, and I think they’re going to be a bad influence on you.”

Spike snorts, and that’s a sound Xander likes to hear.

Todd scoots along the wall until he’s up against Spike. “Gonna take the van?”

“Yep. I already sold the truck and Manuel’s got the van running really nice. He says it’s got a lot of miles left on it.”

“After Boston?”

“Not sure. Maybe England, if we can think of a way to get the sunlight-challenged there. Spike wants to visit his hometown, and I have a little unfinished business of my own there. Although _my_ unfinished business doesn’t involve poking people with knives. I hope.”

Spike slings an arm around Todd’s shoulders. He looks happy, Xander thinks. And, in his tight black pants and dark red tank top, with his honey-colored curls just beginning to grow out, he looks dead sexy, no pun intended. “Xan even got me a passport. I’m almost legal now.”

Actually, it had been Dan who managed that. When Xander went to tell his boss he was leaving for a while, his boss asked why, and Xander explained that some government people might be after him. Dan’s eyes lit up at that. He immediately started scribbling phone numbers on a piece of paper—people Xander could contact to help him out. One of those people was a whiz at getting false papers, so Xander and Spike are now in possession of fake drivers licenses and credible-looking passports. Xander does regret letting the evil undead choose their aliases, though. While Spike gets to go by the perfectly respectable name of William A. Harris, for the foreseeable future Xander’s going to have to answer to Randy Pratt.

“Just make sure you keep in touch, okay?”

Spike ruffles Todd’s hair. “’Course. We wouldn’t want to lose track of our Zilla, would we?”

Todd ruffles Spike right back, then grabs his arm. “Good. Then come give me a dance before you go.”

Xander watches as Todd drags his nearly-willing boyfriend back into JJ’s, and he smiles.

 

Nearly all of their things have been packed. They’ve decided to take a few favorite weapons with them, just in case, but the rest are tucked away upstairs. Xander’s books on demons are up there, too, along with the photocopied pages from the watchers’ diaries.

They’re not really taking much with them. The toy box which Xander has finally finished. A few changes of clothes. Spike’s journal. Angel’s blanket. Their favorite mug.

Now Xander looks at the pictures atop his dresser. There’s Willow and Jen and the twins, of course. There’s Todd and his half-Brachen boyfriend, both in green. The third picture is a candid shot Todd took. Xander and Spike are sitting on the couch, both shirtless. Their lips are swollen, and Xander’s face is flushed and his hair is mussed. If you look closely, you can see several pinprick wounds on his neck. Xander and Spike are looking at each other and laughing.

Cold arms steal around his stomach from behind. “Handsome devil, yeah?” says the baritone murmur in his ear.

Xander squirms around and rests his hands on Spike’s shoulders. They lean their foreheads together. “The handsomest, baby. Ready to go?”

“Always ready, as long as I go with you, luv.”

They stay hand in hand as Xander slings a duffel bag over his shoulder and Spike hoists a cooler full of blood. They walk out the kitchen door, and Xander uses Spike’s key to lock it. Xander looks up a final time at the little yellow bungalow. “Gonna miss home?” Spike asks.

Xander turns to him and smiles. “My home is wherever you are.”

Then he fishes in his pocket and pulls out the key to the van. He tosses it to Spike.

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. “You drive.”

\---Fin---

[Click here for the sequel, _The Darkness Inside_.](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/10359.html)  
 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000064d1/)  
 

 


End file.
